Episode One:  Farscape, Blind Icarus
by Errationatus
Summary: An Unrealized Reality Series. Talyn-John survives "Icarus Abides", and he and Aeryn escape to Earth, leaving Moya-John behind.  What does a man do when he believes he s lost everything that matters?
1. Chapter 1

**Previously, on _Farscape_:**

On the planet Dambada, John Crichton has been in a battle for possession of his body with the neural clone. Aeryn prepares to shoot Crichton in the mistaken belief that it has usurped John's brain. The Ancient they call "Jack" stops her. "Harvey" dies, and Crichton finally has his mind to himself.

To combat the approaching Scarran Dreadnought, Jack unlocks John's wormhole knowledge, and they begin work on the Displacement Engine.

Back on Talyn, Stark and the still-blind Crais have to contend with a Scarran who has managed to board the ship and is determined to take control. Stark and Crais manage to trick the Scarran and Talyn shoots him.

On Dambada, as they work on the device, the wormhole knowledge slowly filters through John's mind. Finally, with only one stage to complete, John and Aeryn exit the area while Jack installs the partanium - a highly radioactive substance that powers the device. While they're gone, Furlow shoots and kills Jack, and steals the engine.

Planning to sell the Displacement Engine to the Scarrans, Furlow escapes in a sand buggy, but is pursued by Aeryn and John. Aeryn has to jump off to battle a Charrid pursuer, and when John finally catches up with Furlow she is being interrogated by the Charrids. John uses the opportunity and the distraction to retrieve his Displacement Engine, and rejoins Aeryn. With nothing to show the Charrids, Furlow is dragged away by them to 'explain' her failure.

Aeryn destroys the rest of Furlow's Complex, hopefully so no chance of any trace that could lead future seekers to wormhole technology remains. The wounded Rygel boards Talyn's transport pod and leaves the planet, waiting out of range to rejoin Talyn.

Insisting she accompany him, Aeryn joins John in his module, and they fly toward the Scarran Dreadnought. Releasing the weapon, he demonstrates the terrifying power of wormhole technology. The Dreadnought is destroyed, and following brief farewells, John and Aeryn leave for Earth…

* * *

**AND NOW, ON FARSCAPE:**

BLIND ICARUS

LOST CAUSE

* * *

"The song is done - the sweet cry of yearning

died in my mouth:  
A magician did it, a friend at the right hour,  
a noontime friend - no! Do not ask who it might be -  
it was at noon when one turned into two . . . ."

_- _**Friedrich Nietzsche, **

_**Out of the High Mountains, AFTERSONG.**_

_**

* * *

**_

…_**six monens later…**_

**MOYA PLOUGHED THROUGH THE DENSE NEBULA**, incandescent dust flowing around her like a stellar mist, shrugging off the exotic radiations that played over her skin.

Pilot merely kept up his routine, but otherwise did not interfere. She had heard it, and he had not, but she had been so _certain_, he could do nothing but acquiesce. He hoped that she'd not be disappointed again. She'd been mistaken before.

D'Argo roused himself from the doze he'd been falling into by an exuberant Chiana bounding into his quarters. The last weeken had been textbook in a demonstration of the spirit-sapping strength of unremitting tedium.

"Pilot thinks he found a _sig_nal!" she sent chattering at him as he sat up.

"Is that a definite thing?" He returned a skeptical look back at the grinning Nebari. They'd done this _nine_ times in the last six monens already.

"No, not definite, but it's the best yet, and Pilot didn't actually find it, he says Moya heard it." Chiana leaned in, grabbed his arm. "C'mon – we're only a few hundred microts away, he says – on the other side of this Tor!"

"Tor" was the Sebacean word for "nebula".

D'Argo hauled himself to his feet, followed her out. His leg still ached from the wound he'd received three weekens previously at the last spot they'd thought they'd picked up Crichton's trail in the F'reel System. They'd found Vess'mar'Ine bounty hunters instead. What a frelling mess.

"Chiana, we shouldn't get our hopes up. It's just as likely that it _isn't_ John. We may have to accept that he's simply not coming back."

"And it's just as likely that it _is_. Have _some_ faith." She bounded like a manic Welliba gazelle up the corridor ahead of him.

D'Argo sighed, shook his head. "I have plenty of faith – in things going farhbot," he muttered as he followed her.

Crichton had been "missing" for almost six monens, ever since Crais and Talyn had returned, alone.

_No, not going there_.

Whenever he thought about it, even though D'Argo was fairly certain he understood why they had done it, a small sting of resentment would always flare up in him – no, he wasn't going to try and figure out _that_ skein, either. They'd heard stories, here and there, snatches of hearsay, more fanciful facets of the "Crichton Legend". They'd listened and laughed, but there were a couple, one or two, that D'Argo fiercely hoped _weren't_ true, stories of assassinations, piracy and …massacres.

* * *

"_Did sh – they - say anything?" He'd asked, all concern and dread._

"_Very little. They seemed to be in some haste, but did not deign to explain it to me. 'Thanks for everything' were their final words to me, Commander." Crais had told him, not particularly relishing the thought of telling them so. "There was no other message."_

"_I see." Crichton had said. He'd paused, nodded and then he'd walked calmly away._

_That night, Chiana had heard him …laughing._

_The next night he'd vanished from Moya._

_

* * *

_

He had that small stab of resentment, but Crais had, after some prodding, spelled it out – so, then, what about the Crichton they'd simply _forgotten_?

He couldn't find it in himself to blame John for leaving the way he had. Nothing any of them could have said would have been of any comfort. It all would have rang hollow.

"_Everyone – it is confirmed._" Pilot interrupted his ruminations. "_It is definitely a signal from Commander Crichton!_"

Chiana beat him to it.

"_Pilot – are you sure this time?_"

"_All signal waveforms match the criteria for Crichton's voice. It is definitely him._"

D'Argo stepped onto Command, saw Chiana still grinning, Rygel bobbing in his thronesled, Jool bent over a console. Pilot shimmered on the clamshell.

"Voices can be imitated." D'Argo said, not really wanting to ruin the good news, but compelled to anyway.

"You gotta be a hardcore pessimist _all_ the time?" Chiana said, annoyed.

"There is a difference between pessimism and _realism_, Chiana."

"_It is not his module, but internal scans confirm near-Sebacean lifesigns, Ka'D'Argo._" Pilot told him, after a moment.

Chiana stuck her tongue out at him. "In other words – _Human."_

D'Argo just shook his head again, said, "Okay, Pilot. Intercept."

Pilot nodded, vanished from the clamshell.

_Six monens. _

D'Argo wasn't angry at Crichton for leaving. No one was, not really. They'd been concerned for their friend, worried over his well-being, anxious over some of the things they'd heard with his name attached. What had concerned D'Argo then had been the state of Crichton's mind at his going, and what concerned him now was the state of Crichton's mind at his return.

In the grand scheme of things, six monens was nothing.

For some, however, it could be a lifetime.

* * *

**HE WATCHED THE SHINING GOLDEN TEARDROP BREAK FREE FROM THE NEBULA BEHIND HIM.**

The ship he was in was a Nemedjian "Blaster"-class frigate, 30 cycles old, and not _technically_ his property. His first impression of its lines had been "a hunchbacked rat", which had not endeared him to the ship's previous owner. He didn't kill him, but he may as well had. It was battered but serviceable; armed, but not heavily so, and only about two weekens from being officially labeled "junk". Normally run by five to twelve individuals, he'd managed with a cranky work 'bot and a snotty computer that didn't seem to like much of anything, including operating. Moments after transmitting his signal, it finally got its wish and blew most of its own mind out. The backup computer was a standard number cruncher, _sans_ personality and worked much better, except it couldn't fly the ship. He'd settle just for keeping the life support and communications running.

He'd sucked in a breath at Moya's appearance, now let it out slowly. A band of tension coiled suddenly across his chest then dissipated. It felt both like several lifetimes since he'd seen her last and only yesterday. He had come to and made many hard decisions, and realized a few more remained – like whether this Leviathan and the memories she held were something with which he could live comfortably. He'd left to get some distance, but it never seemed far enough.

He hadn't trusted himself to stay, he hadn't trusted himself around his friends. He didn't trust himself with the memories. That was why he left in the first place. He'd been on the edge of madness trying to reconcile it all, what had felt like betrayal, the indifference, the sheer callousness of their flight. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd finally gotten a handle on it.

"_We don't say goodbyes,"_ she'd once said.

She'd been true to her word.

He wondered yet again – for the billionth time - why he wasn't or hadn't been angry or just disappointed. Yes, it had driven him to a near-breakdown – the sheer agony of losing her like that, to… _him_. He'd needed to _think_. He'd lost all sense of purpose.

Things, however, were _very_ different now.

He looked at the screen at Moya again, caught his reflection in a piece of polished metal, touched the healing cut on his head, just above his left eyebrow. It was coming along nicely, but it would leave a scar. He shrugged internally. He'd picked up a few new scars in his time away. One more made no difference

A few new scars, a few new names…

He put his head back, closed his eyes.

"_Where are you going?" she'd asked, all eyes and questions. She was very young and he felt very old._

"_I don't know yet." He'd looked up at the endless expanse of stars, shook his head. "Nowhere to go, I guess."_

"_Nonsense," she said, squeezing his hand. "You can always go home."_

_To his eternal bewilderment, his laugh at that made her hug him hard and cry._

"_Crichton? John? Are you there?"_ D'Argo.

John Crichton? There was a name he hadn't heard in a while. Hadn't felt like it for a while, either. Yeah, he could be Crichton. For these people. They were still friends. _Whose_ friends, he was still debating.

"Yeah, D. I'm here. Blew a whole bunch of capacitors. Or something." His voice was a little hoarse. He hadn't said a single word in three days. He'd stopped talking. He spoke only when he had something to say and stayed silent all other times. He'd learned to _listen_, and no longer judged anything by the antiquated sensibilities of a primitive planet that no longer mattered.

"_Glad to see you. Interesting ship. You all right? What happened?"_

"I've been better. Flight computer tanked, but I can move - barely - on stationing thrusters. I'm a little sore here and there, but all right. Standing by."

He sat back up, looked around again as Moya came closer. Soon, she'd be in range and he'd plunk this piece of junk in her hanger and try and make it serviceable again. Failing that, he might be able to trade it in for something slightly better. He had to stay mobile.

"_We'll be microts. Glad you're home_."

Home.

Was Moya home? Did he _want_ one? Where _did_ you go when there was nowhere to go? He'd traced her location, put himself into her path just as he'd run out of fuel, sent the signal… months of searching, for a damn wormhole, for something that would give him an explanation – for anything. He'd even gone to Dambada, searched through the ruins of Furlow's garage - not really knowing why - but doing it anyway. If there had been a wormhole there – and there must have been – it was gone now. No matter what he did, _his_ attempts at 'slingshots' had no real effect. He'd recorded everything, studied them minutely, but came to no conclusions other than his own apparent lack of ability. The only one he'd managed had damn-near killed him.

He'd moved on, looked for other traces, just moving around, letting his instincts guide him, trying to feel his way to answers. Trying to find Furlow, or another wormhole.

It hadn't worked. He'd met people that were less than reputable, done things less than noble or stellar, all for frelling answers he _knew _he wasn't going to like. His last destination had been a Charrid base. Furlow _had_ been there, but there was nothing there now but faint traces and three hundred dead, decomposing Charrids.

No Ancients, no wormholes, no Furlow, no buzz in his head to tell him he was close. Nothing. He didn't know anything new, he'd not uncovered a reason, or an excuse he could give himself for doing it. There was - he'd finally realized, feeling stupid, as it had felt utterly obvious - nothing for _him_ to find.

So prosaic, that. The last nail. Plain, simple steps that had led to his demise.

Like clockwork, one, two, three:

John had gone to Talyn. Whether by design or at Aeryn's behest – didn't matter. Naturally, and he knew this was inevitable, the relationship had taken its next step – because John sure as hell was going take every chance – and in the end, Aeryn had chosen. You can't fool love, right? She _knew_ Crichton. That was why she'd been so desperate to save his life when John'd been injured by that bomb, _why_ they had left when _he'd_ been down on Kanvia negotiating for the Chromextin in John's place: in no position to protest or do anything about it. It wouldn't have mattered anyway.

The Choice Had Been Made.

One became essential.

One became expendable.

Just like that.

Okay, fine. It was inevitable, after all.

He had the face, had the memories, had the feelings. You couldn't fool the woman you loved though - she'd _know_. She'd _known_. That face, the memories, those feelings? So what? Didn't matter - copies were copies. That's just the way these things were, would always be.

He did not and would not begrudge her the right to make her own choices.

He looked at the stars, at one that shimmered in the centre of his view, a bright one.

They were gone, as if they'd fled to an entirely different universe - they were where he could not go.

He had nothing to prove, nothing to really fight for, now that all the things he had hoped for were finished, all his dreams dead. They were not his dreams, he'd realized, finally. Not his hopes. Never were, never would be.

_I'm done. This particular comedy is almost over._

His ship's drift made it appear as if the nebula were moving, was shifting that star behind it.

_I will never be a victim again._

He watched it until it had vanished behind the dust.

* * *

**Chiana watched** him enter command, dressed, clean, shaven, armed.

He'd been back two days.

They'd had their reunion, Crichton had been hesitant and distant, but all had welcomed him back without recrimination, without acrimony – all save Rygel, of course. They'd been worried, they'd said. He'd reassured them.

Whatever shape he was in, he'd told them, he'd done to _himself_. _No one else_ was to blame, he'd said pointedly.

No one, as yet, had asked what had happened in his time away, and he was volunteering nothing. He spent his time away from them working on the 'Blaster'. Even back, they barely saw him.

Crichton strode up to the navigational console, called to Pilot.

"Pilot – any word from Talyn and Crais?" His voice was calm, sharp, steady.

"_Yes, Commander. Moya received a burst transmission from Talyn just under an arn ago. They will meet up with us in half a solar day. Talyn has been having… troubles, Crais says._"

_Yeah, I wasn't the only one_, he thought, feeling coldly sardonic. Half-a-cycle ago, Talyn had returned with the news of 'The Departure' - and then he and Crais had left, neither very happy, but Crichton suspected it was more Talyn than Crais. He'd not been long in following them. Crais and Talyn had come back more often than he had, however. Talyn was still neurotic and twitchy, had lashed out at his mother on their last visit, two solar days ago. Fortunately, it had been verbal and not physical. The kid's mind was deteriorating at a rapid pace. Crais had managed a few stopgap repairs but nothing short of massive 'surgery' as it were was going to fix the kid.

"Not really his fault. How are we for supplies?"

"_We will need re-supply within the weeken to stay within safety_."

"When Crais gets back, you should probably find a decent Commerce Planet and re-stock. You never know how far away the next one will be."

"_A good idea, Commander_."

"Anything on Stark?"

"_I was curious about that myself, but he informed me that Stark had left shortly before… the first time… – muttering something about a planet called Valdon. Apparently, he plans to seek to commune with… Zhaan. She was…calling him. Or so he claimed. He disembarked on Dambada and vanished. He could frankly be anywhere."_

_Shit._ He could have used Stark. Nevermind.

"Uh-huh. Well, you know Stark. He'll show up again when the whim grabs him."

"_Very likely."_

"Thanks, Pilot."

He turned, headed off, Chiana jumped in behind him, followed. He had more gray-white in his hair, starting to streak his temples. It was longer, past his collar. There was a slim braid behind his right ear, she noticed, with small, slender silver cylinders woven through it. Odd.

"_It's a warrior's affectation here," She'd told him, sitting in his lap to do it, weaving it deftly with her slim fingers. "It makes you someone."_

"_I'm no one. I'm not real." he told her, patiently trying to explain it again. "I'm no warrior, either."_

"_Reality is highly suspect at the best of times", she'd laughed. "You'll be a warrior all right – you can't be anything else."_

"Hey – where ya going?"

"To fix my ship."

"Can I come? I can help."

A shrug.

She followed along for another few moments, then asked;

"Are you okay?" There's a pause there, and it feels longer than it actually is, lasting no longer than a microt. He has weighed his answer and the one he gives is not the one he feels. This question has been asked of him many times, and the answer is never, she realizes, true.

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, c'mon – you _did_ kinda space out there for _more_ than a couple of days."

He stopped, looked at her. He is deadly serious, more than she thinks it merits.

"Yeah – I'm sorry about that. Dunno what I was thinking. I'm better now." He seemed to look past her for a moment, then continued on. There is something different about his walk, Chiana notes, but she can't place it. It seems heavier, like the sound of police boots in a hallway. It doesn't mesh, it's not right, not coming from John.

"No, it was okay, I mean, it was understandable…"

"Chi – there's _nothing_ to discuss."

"But…"

He stopped, and the look her gave her scared her.

He turned and continued on. She didn't follow him.

* * *

**CRAIS AND TALYN RETURNED ON TIME, AND THEY WERE, AS INFORMED, MUCH CALMER.**

Without preliminaries, they were asked to follow Moya to the nearest Commerce Planet, which they did. The re-stocking of Moya went off without incident, and the two Leviathans moved on. Eventually, they came across the Thonexia Commerce Station, and Crichton abruptly decided that he needed some "R&R", to which Chiana and Jool loudly seconded and thirded, and D'Argo and Crais had reservations about – to which Crichton had merely replied with a curt, "Suit yourself", and went anyway. He moved his module out of the 'Blaster' and took the Frigate. Twelve arns later, Jool was returned - very drunk – by station security, with a large lump on her head. Chiana came back _unconscious_, so inebriated she would not awaken for two _days_.

An investigation by D'Argo could find no trace of Crichton. Further investigation revealed that a Nemedjian frigate was seen heading for the Tilenkia Commerce Station on the other side of the system arns before.

Two solar days later, as she sped toward the station, Moya received word that the Tilenkia Commerce Station was currently under security lockdown, pending an investigation into a firefight that had broken out between a Sebacean male and a squad of Peacekeeper commandos on shore leave. There were nine dead - all Commandos - and over four _million_ krindars of damage had been done to the station via the ramming of a Nemedjian Frigate into it. Said Sebacean had then stolen the Commandos' _Marauder _and was last seen heading to Arkkanoi IV.

_When,_ D'Argo wondered, _had John learned to fly a_ Marauder?

By the time Moya and Talyn had reached Arkkanoi IV, three days later, the Marauder had been looted and sold to an underground starship dealer, and all that they could glean was that the one they were looking for had booked passage for either Tarklian or the Vomannis Tor worlds.

Crais suggested that they split up, he and Talyn would head to Vomannis Tor. D'Argo, more worried than angry - agreed. They would meet back at Arkkanoi.

Another half-day went by, and Talyn settled into orbit around Osakis Lashing, the only habitable planet in Vomannis Tor, a sector-notorious den of outlaws, rebels and malcontents. Crais armed himself heavily and went to the surface.

After some fruitless questioning of the locals, he asked Talyn to attempt to key in on Crichton's biosigns, to narrow down his search. Talyn had some difficulty scanning through the thick pollution from the heavy oil refineries that clogged the planet, but he eventually managed to send Crais to the area called _Volker's Den, _arguably the worst part of a very seedy planet.

Crais finally found Crichton in a bar just off one of the spaceports. He walked into the place that probably should have been more raucous than it was. The Human was not hard to spot. Crais stepped over the bodies of two Hekhmaji - bipedal Felinids - _bounty hunters - _there was clear path and space around them and their killer.

Against the wall in the corner, sat Crichton himself, looking cold and dangerous, having acquired a new wardrobe, a very black leather, armored and hooded longcoat with blood-red and silver inlays, new boots and pants. He also had a heavy pulse rifle resting on the table before him, and as Crais approached the table, he could see it was a brand-new, very illegal-for-a-civilian-to-have Peacekeeper-issue _Forge_-class heavy assault pulse cannon, obviously liberated from the Marauder. It did not use Chakkan Oil and it was designed solely to kill Scarrans. At his feet was a very large duffel, stuffed full.

"Crais." Crichton nodded when he saw him. Cold blue eyes regarded the ex-Captain from the shadows of the hood.

"Commander Crichton." Crais said, trying to determine his mood. Notoriously hard to read, was this one. The other had been no problem at all. This one was a _wall_.

Crichton squinted at him, reached over, took a drink.

"You want something?"

Crais blinked.

"We have been looking for you for days."

Crichton smiled a thin smile at him.

"Well, hell, Crais – here I am. If you'd started here, you would have found me before I'd arrived." The smile was a razor-thin thing, and it was only when Crichton set the mug back down that Crais realized that Crichton was drunk – no, not drunk, but what Crais' father had called 'frozen in drink' – numbed – and he recognized the _kind_ of numb. It was the kind that got people killed.

Crichton casually picked up the rifle, swung it squarely around to point directly into Crais' face. The barrel stopped a dench from his nose. For all his supposed imbibing, the barrel was as steady as a rock. There was a collective step back by the other patrons.

"You realize that all of this was your doing, yes?" His eyes narrowed. Crais remained calm, watching Crichton closely. He nodded. Yes, he regarded that as a fact. A few dozen microts ticked by.

"Goddamn universe." Crichton sighed a half-sigh/half-growl, looked at Crais for a few moments, suddenly slammed the _Forge_ back onto the table. "Why is it so frelling capricious? You know?"

He swayed unsteadily for a moment, stopped.

"No… 'course you don't." He examined at his half-full mug, looked back over at Crais. "Why the frell would you? Who frelling cares? Sit the frell down."

Crais did, opposite him. Crichton glanced down at his rifle, looked up across the bar, stared away from Crais for a moment. He reached into his pocket, pulled a small pouch out, tossed it at the bartender, who caught it, opened it, counted, nodded back.

"I don't like you, Crais. Never have. Never will. But that comes as no surprise to you. You won't be losing sleep over it."

Crais shook his head. No, of course not.

"But that's not _me_ – you understand? Those are _memories_. Those memories have emotional components I can't help. I'm going, however, to try. You did nothing to _me_, I understand that now. So - I will give you the benefit of doubt – not trust, but some leeway. That …hate… that's _John's. I'm_ gonna cut you some slack – provisionally."

Crais wasn't entirely sure what he meant, but he got the gist. He and the other Crichton had managed to reach a kind of accord. Not much of one, but working. This too, could be considered a step forward, one he was happy to accept.

"That is fair," Crais told him, and received a curt nod in return.

"Don't –" he returned with a cold edge. " - _ever_ mistake me for _him_. There's no Sun here to save you and it could be a mistake you might not live to regret."

Crais simply nodded again. Crichton stared at him for long microts, seemed uncomfortable. He looked away as a raucous group laughed and bellowed their way by the table.

"Crais…" he said, not looking back. "Did you ever want to go home - so badly you could taste it - and then realize that a home was something you never actually had?"

Crais said, utterly honestly and openly, "Yes." And Crichton almost smiled, and after a few moments, nodded.

"Tell me one more thing, Crais." Crichton turned cold and bloodshot eyes back onto the ex-Peacekeeper Captain.

"If I can."

Crichton leaned across the table, looked closely at the ex-Captain.

"Was she…" A pause. "…happy?" He asked quietly.

Crais knew better not to lie.

"Yes, of course. Very much so."

Crichton looked a moment longer and then pulled back, sat silently. After what seemed like a very long time, he said, quietly -

"Yeah."

He stood again, picked up the _Forge_ rifle, slung it on his back, picked up his duffel, slung it over his shoulder. Crais rose with him. He got a firm grip on his Forge, said;

"Let's lock and load. You mind getting that?" He kicked another large duffel under the table. Something had changed him, Crais could see it. Something was …missing, but Crais merely nodded, slung the duffel, grunted at its weight, nodded to indicate the way out.

They were nearly to the transport pod when Crichton stopped, pulled back the hood and looked at Crais, asked, "The kid ok with me onboard?"

Crais wondered at the question for a moment, then realized what Crichton meant. _I look and sound like the other one, and Talyn's not fond of that one at the moment. He can make the distinction, right?_

"Talyn has no objections to you, Commander." Talyn could.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, of course." A nod.

On Talyn, Crichton dumped his duffels into a crew alcove, glanced out the port. He stopped, looked around the red corridor, at the angular red DRD on the wall above his head, then made his way to Talyn's Command.

"Ka'D'Argo has been informed, Commander." Crais told him as he entered. Crichton still had his rifle on his back. "He will meet us at Arkkanoi IV."

Crichton scrubbed his hands through his hair.

"He's pissed."

"No. He understands. We all do."

Crichton glanced around Command.

"Yeah, sure…" he looked up at the ceiling. "Sorry, kid." Talyn warbled. Crichton looked at Crais.

"Talyn asks, 'sorry for what'?"

"Just… sorry. I'm sure I owe a few apologies here and there."

Talyn warbled again.

"Talyn accepts your apology, Commander, for whatever it was."

"Thanks." Crichton seemed to hesitate a moment, then asked:

"How is he, anyway?"

"As well as can be expected. The repairs to his neural synapses has been patchwork at best. I have tried everything I can think of, but my funds are limited, and those who could help are understandably suspicious. I have managed to keep him going this long… but the damage by… the Retrieval Squad was rather extensive." Crichton looked around, made a slight cutting motion with his thumb across his throat, looked up as he did it. Crais understood.

"Talyn – if you will excuse us for a moment, Commander Crichton and I wish to talk privately." Talyn warbled. "Thank you. Engaging privacy mode." He looked up at Crichton.

"A concern, Commander?" Crichton, surprisingly, seemed perfectly sober, and Crais wondered briefly how that was possible.

"How extensive _was_ the damage to the kid, Crais? Really?"

Crais sighed, crossed his hands behind his back.

"Extensive. Initially, I had to impose a simulacrum of my own neural patterns over his own to stabilize him – it was only a framework, but it did not last. I have managed to install neural shunts and a few synaptic patches, but as you can imagine, they are merely stopgaps, holding actions as it were – and they will not last, either. The experts I knew were all Peacekeepers and they are understandably reluctant to aid me. Those experts I could find were either hostile or prohibitively expensive." Crais almost sighed. "Even now he is becoming increasingly more erratic and unreliable. In two weekens, perhaps less, perhaps slightly longer, I fear his entire neural network may collapse. He could very well go insane."

"Ok, that's bad. I find it hard to believe that for a people who use Leviathans so extensively - no one seems to have any decent repair or rehab facilities for them."

Crais looked a little discomfited by what he was about to say, "I'm afraid that most races who employ Leviathans tend to think of them as, well, _disposable_. Unfortunately true."

"Yeah – _most_. _Someone_ has to give slightly more of a crap for them, however. If there's nothing _we_ can do for him, there has to be somewhere and someone that can."

"What do you suggest?"

"I suggest we stop dicking around and _find_ one." Crichton turned, walked toward the door. "I don't know about you, Crais, but personally, I've _had it_ with being at the mercy of every whim of fate in this galaxy. I think it's past time to be a bit more… proactive." He stopped at the door. "How long until we meet up with D?"

"Perhaps a solar day, a few arns more."

"Cool. If the kid doesn't mind, I'll find a corner to crash in."

"Not at all. Help yourself as you require."

"Thanks." Crichton stepped out the door and Crais disengaged the privacy lockout on Talyn. Crais watched him make his way back toward the rudimentary crew quarters, shake his head, and then continue on. Uncannily, Crichton stopped precisely at the same alcove the other had used when he'd first come onboard. Crichton hesitated, walked past it. He found a small niche on Talyn's Hammonside, climbed in, pulled longcoat and hood around him, put the _Forge_ rifle on his lap, and was almost immediately asleep.

Crais contemplated the sleeping man for a few long moments, shook his head, and then started Talyn on the long flight back to Arkkanoi IV.

Crichton slept the entire trip.

* * *

**D'ARGO STARED ACROSS THE TABLE AT HIM UNTIL HE LOOKED UP.**

"What?" Crichton asked. It had been another day since Crais had returned him to Moya. Crichton had awakened long enough to carry his stuff over, then immediately pass out again.

"You sure you're all right?" D'Argo asked.

"Fine. Got a headache that could etch steel..."

"What in Hezmana were you _thinking_?"

Crichton slapped his mug down on the table, startling Jool, who squeaked. She was ignored. She was still feeling faintly ill from her own binge.

"I _wasn't_. That's the goddamn problem. I was trying to find a _focus_, D. I had thought I had gotten my act together, but coming back tipped things over again. I had to get out and think – at least _try _and get my head back on straight. I'm better. I know what to do now."

"John…" He'd debated broaching it, tried tentatively, "I know what it was, I can understand. You loved Aeryn and she…"

It came down like a steel door closing, hard, arctic and final:

"No, D." His eyes were flint. "I don't love anyone. Those are _John's_ memories, not mine_._ She loves _him_, and she's happy. She had the right, okay? Whatever happened between the two of them – has nothing to do with me."

He narrowed his eyes, and his voice was even colder.

"I accept it. I am what I am, whatever that is."

He stopped, looked at his friend, the empathy on his face, the sorrow in his eyes.

"You need to stop thinking of me and him as the same. We're _not_."

"I don't see any difference, John." D'Argo told him and meant it. Crichton just shook his head.

"I know. But I do."

D'Argo nodded slowly, and Crichton glanced around the table.

"Look, I'm sorry I sent you guys all over. I apologize for the binge. It was weak." He looked pointedly at D'Argo when he said it. D'Argo just nodded again. Yeah, he understood better now.

"Is that going to be your excuse forever?" Rygel groused.

"Screw you, Sparky."

"John…" D'Argo tried again. "It wasn't that. I can understand _that._ I wouldn't hold it against you." He pushed a disc across the table at him. "It's _this_ that worries me. This was everywhere we went."

He pressed a button on the side of the disc and an image shimmered above it. It was a face he recognized – Myklo Braca, Scorpius' shadow. Images of the crew followed their names on the beacon.

"_An unprecedented reward is offered for the capture of the terrorist John Crichton. If captured alive, twenty-five million currency pledges. If dead, five million."_

Aeryn's image floated up, and Crichton just looked at it, his face stone.

"_For the capture of the Peacekeeper deserter Aeryn Sun, a reward of 15 million currency pledges. For Ka'D'Argo the Luxan…" _D'Argo reached over, shut it off.

"All our bounties are _substantially_ higher than they were."

"Why is _Aeryn's_ so high?" Rygel asked, missing the shadow that crossed Crichton's face.

"_Because_, Ryge – 'grab Sun and Crichton comes running' – that's the refrain." He laughed, but there was absolutely no humor in it. "Are they ever behind the times."

"My only concern was…" D'Argo began.

"Yeah, I know." Crichton interrupted. "I had to kill two Hekhmaji on Osakis Lashing. The hunt for me is intensifying."

"What do you think we should do?'

"I was talking to Crais about Talyn – about finding somewhere to help him. It might be a good idea to see what we can do for Moya, as well – in way of armor, other defences, maybe. She's _gotta_ be getting pretty damn tired of taking shots all the time."

D'Argo eyed him for a moment.

"Agreed. Do you have a plan?"

"First – we have to find professionals that can work on Leviathans. They _deserve_ that much. More bounty hunters will be on the way. We upgrade them as much as they can stand and we can afford."

"Is that even possible? Upgrading a Leviathan?"

Crichton went back to eating, shrugged.

"I don't know, but we have to do something. We've got all this cash – let's make it work for us."

Jool coughed, and they looked at her.

"I think I know a place." She began. "Where they work with Leviathans, with no Peacekeeper interference, I mean."

"Where?"

"That's the problem – it's a very professional outfit, all experts. I'd heard about it before I'd been frozen. I should say I know _of_ it, but I don't know exactly _where_ it is."

Crichton looked at her, shoved his plate away.

"Think hard on it. Is there anywhere or anyone you might know to find out?"

Jool looked uncomfortable.

"Well?" D'Argo ground at her.

"Dovanni Notia. There's a small group of expatriate Interions living on the farside of the planet. They might know."

"Why am I anticipating a 'but', Jool?"

"I, uh, didn't exactly leave there under the best of circumstances."

"Do you know how to get there?" D'Argo asked her.

"Not exactly." Sheepish. "It's been twenty-three cycles!" D'Argo sighed.

Crichton glanced over to the clamshell, glanced back at her as he said, "Pilot – does Moya know where this Dovanni Notia is?"

Pilot shimmered onto the clamshell.

"_Yes, Commander – it is on the edge of the Abraxi Tor – about a weeken and three solar days from here – with starburst." _Crichton looked at D'Argo, who nodded in agreement.

"If you would, lay in a course."

"_Very well._"

Crichton looked back at Jool.

"You can talk to these people?"

"I shouldn't have too many problems. I'm an Interion, they're Interions." Her voice implied there was more to it, but he let it slide for now, nodded, got up. D'Argo glanced over at him.

"Now why does that sound like famous last words?"

Crichton quirked a cold grin at Jool, said to D'Argo – "Let's just hope it's not her epitaph." - left, leaving them wondering what he had meant by that.

* * *

**THE TERRACE HAD BEEN THEIR PLACE.**

They would sit or stand and watch. They would touch without touching. They would understand one another in the comfortable silences. All around them - blazing stars and radiant dust and beautiful cataclysms, all his stellar dreams spread before him - for all that he would only have eyes for Her.

Crichton remembered. He knew it in his heart as if it were only yesterday, as if he'd been there himself. She had been superb and real and She had smiled _that_ Smile – that Smile that he could _feel_, that Smile that peeled open his soul, and made every one of his cells light up - at him, for him and him alone.

_No._

He has never stood here with Her.

The memories and emotions that made this place special belonged to _them_. He remembered and felt it only because he had no choice.

He stood here now only as a final test, to look inside himself and see what remained – what, if anything, actually belonged to him.

He would have laughed if he could have remembered how, but things weren't funny anymore, and hadn't been for a long time.

He might have cried, but he'd forgotten how to do that, too.

Feelings got in the way, he'd realized. They made you weak, they distracted you when you needed to focus. _She_ had taught him that. She had been right, even though She had forgotten, had been crippled by John and his relentless infantile desires. Aeryn had been trying to tell John that, teach him, practically since She'd arrived on this Leviathan.

In _this_ life, feelings would just get you killed. Survival _uber alles_. It was all you'd get – all you'd be allowed to have. Gilina had loved John and it had gotten her killed. Aeryn had loved John and had died. Zhaan had loved John and it killed her as effectively as if he'd just shot her himself.

_He_ had learned, however. Kaarvok's Creature had waited and learned and he had finally paid attention. His heart and body bore the scars of that lesson.

He knew what he was now. A madman had taken a body and split the cells into two entities, claimed them identical. That, of course, was ridiculous. In the very next second after his creation, he and John were inescapably _different_.

She'd seen those differences – the gathering darkness at the base of him, the twisted-bastard creation of Kaarvok he was – and then She had followed her remorseless feminine instincts and She'd _chosen _as She should have, and that was all the proof that was required. She was not one to be fooled.

"_We don't say goodbyes."_

Even as the shade of an intruder slept in his synapses, they had not spoke for some time - the differences showed themselves – this intruder was one John had purged, but Crichton _didn't_ want his gone. He would continue to _use_ his own personal Scorpius for his own ends, use the knowledge, and Harvey would be persuaded to full acquiescence or Harvey too would go. But - he understood the necessities, the hard decisions to be made, did Harvey. Harvey understood and he would acquiesce. Harvey too was a survivor, another bastard creation. Bastard sons of monsters.

They would be brothers.

"_We don't say goodbyes."_

John had been there with Her when it mattered - when She had been _ready_, he'd been there. When She'd hurt, wept, laughed, felt it all for the first time openly and honestly, without fear, he had been there. It did not matter if the feelings, thoughts and motivations of the copy were the same.

Of course they were.

He would _never_ know those moments, though, they could not be recaptured, they could not be duplicated. All those firsts - gone forever - never to be reclaimed. They were never meant for him to know, but he knew. He felt them like a thorn under a fingernail, a splinter driven so deep you couldn't get it out without more pain than it was to simply leave it in, and it was all he would ever have of Her, from Her.

Crais had allowed him to view some of Talyn's logs, his memories, on the trip back from Osakis Lashing. They were incomplete and Talyn in no real shape to be thorough. When Talyn was well, however, he'd go and ask him directly – he'd know for sure. But even for that - he _knew_ - he had not existed on Talyn in any form, not even as a ghost, not a thought, not a memory, not a "what about…" – he'd never existed there, and he wasn't even sure any longer if he existed _here._

_What_ he would be, he did not know. All he knew was whom and what _he wasn't_, and for now, it had to be enough.

In the six monens he'd been gone from Moya, he'd finally accepted the truth.

Aeryn - although She had forsaken those lessons for illusions of love and security - had taught him, taught him what was truly important here. He had finally taken it to heart.

The necessity of one day at a time - taken as it came - one night at a time. To master the very minutiae of life, to be wary, to be _ready_. The way of the gun, the way of the shadows and the dark silences. Allies only of the moment, and you trusted _nothing_ but your tools, your instincts and your skills. Only ever yourself. There was no safety, nowhere was secure, no one could ever be trusted fully, for in the end all betrayed - and since the grave was the end for all, it didn't matter if you lived or died.

Crichton's enemies, who would make no distinction and were thus _his_ enemies, did not, would not rest.

Unlike John, however, he would _not_ run. Never again would he run.

He learned these new cadences quickly – once the illusions vanished. He ate when he needed, slept only because he had to, stayed awake until exhaustion pulled him to bed and deep dark sleep would stave off any dreams - and then he slept alone, because the dark hid many secrets and death could come as easily in a kiss as in a blade or pulse blast. Frivolities wasted time – and wasted time would get you nothing but death, wrapped prettily and hand-delivered by Fate.

Home was wherever he stood at the moment.

_Love nothing. If you love nothing, you lose nothing._

John had done many, many very stupid things because he'd allowed himself that weakness. _He_ will not make those mistakes.

"First things first" has become his new mantra. It will, he knows, be the only thing that will permit him to continue, to maintain his sanity.

He has stood here too long. This, he realizes, is his gravesite. Perhaps it's fitting. He does not know yet. The man who leaves this terrace will not be the one who entered.

Her light and Her warmth filled this space once and his heart recoils from the remembering, because it is only the memories of a newly-dead man who yet longs for Her. He always will, but that doesn't matter, either.

He steps back into his shadows and closes his heart and his eyes.

She has taught him well.

Her world. Her ways. All or Nothing.

He was not destined for Her All, so he will live on Her Nothing.

It is all he can do. He feels… smashed, scoured, hollowed of everything that made him what he had thought he was and now knew was not true.

She was everything, and he is nothing now, scalded and nerveless by Her indifference. All he can do now is search for those pieces and discover if any of them were truly him.

He does not hate Her, he could never do that - an impossibility. He's not angry, because he has no right to be angry. "Angry" meant that he was betrayed or slighted somehow, but he wasn't, he hadn't been – it hadn't been a contest, because he had never been a contestant. Nothing She had done had been "wrong" - how could it have been? She was not responsible for his delusions of Crichtonhood. That She'd dismissed him so readily was proof enough of that.

He dares think on Her fondly a moment longer, more than he has dared this long half-cycle, knows he shouldn't. Aeryn Sun was never, had never, would never be his, they shared and would share nothing. He remembers what he remembers because those memories are merely copies. He is not real, they are not real.

He says it to the stars before him, lets it go into the space between them.

"Goodbye."

He only remembers because he has no choice.


	2. Chapter 2

**MOYA WAS IN FULL STARBURST FOR THE FIRST LEG OF THEIR JOURNEY TO DOVANNI NOTIA.**

Talyn would not be coming. They were going to wait where they had rendezvoused with Moya after his binge, Crais not wanting to put any more undue stress on Talyn if he didn't have to. They would find each other again.

Crichton sat in John's quarters, going through items accumulated over the cycles John had been here – well, what was _left,_ anyway. John would never be back to claim anything left, and it was pointless to pretend that these quarters would someday be occupied again. They could be closed or converted into something useful, and no one here would touch anything as long as they thought he'd claim it, anyway.

He tossed a few odds and ends into the crate he'd brought up from the cargo bay, sat back a moment, looked around. He was only here to clean up. He suspected that that would a recurring theme in his life for the next while.

He slept in a small chamber on one of Moya's bottom tiers, away from the others. Had dragged a PK cot in. It was a habit he'd picked up. He liked it quiet. He liked to know where everyone else was in proximity to himself. He could hear Chi slinking around the habitation tier corridors at night – a habit of hers no doubt, but it annoyed the hell out of him. It always dragged him from his deep slumber and allowed the dreams to come. He'd also asked Pilot not to send any DRDs near him when he slept, as he'd accidently shot one a few days previously and didn't want that to become a habit. Pilot agreed. Chiana did not go to the lower tiers. None of them did, which suited him. If they found it strange, they didn't tell him so.

It didn't matter. He wouldn't be here for long, if he could help it. There was too much here to remember.

He saw something glint at the bottom of the pile he was going through, fished out a small silver case, knew exactly what was in it. Odd that John would have forgotten this, but then, why bother with a keepsake when you had the real thing right there?

A lock of night-black hair. How… pointlessly sentimental. He didn't open it, just tossed it into the crate, leaned over, scooped up everything left and stuffed it into the crate as well, roamed the room, swept everything left off shelves and desk, in drawers, and stuffed that all in as well. Then he slammed the cap down, latched it, hoisted it and took it with him.

He certainly didn't want anything in it. What possible use could it be? It belonged to another man.

He made his way down to his own, dumped the container outside, went in to a corner of the room, where he'd left his large duffels, still unpacked.

Crichton pulled the first large and heavy duffel to the bed, it containing everything he thought of value looted from the Marauder, up-ended it, spilled the contents on the bed, started sorting. A data reader and a box of chips, various components he'd chosen for his… the module, minor upgrades there, extra cartridges, batteries for his guns. The other duffel contained clothes and toiletries, things of that domestic nature - including several new T's, shirts, two jackets, a couple of extra pairs of leather pants, three pairs of military-issue heavy boots – all black, of course. There was white cold-weather gear, even a 'hot weather' suit – naturally. It could come in handy. He'd also had three longcoats made – all custom-designed to his specifications.

He pulled the new belt off the improvised coat-rack by the door, this one rigged in such a way as it had two holsters, crisscrossing the other. He strapped them on, butts out - pulled each pulse pistol and checked them.

He'd had them custom-made on the Tilenkia Commerce Station, along with the holsters. They'd cost him a fistful of cash, but they were almost _exact_ matches to Wynona.

Following the incident when the Nebari had boarded Moya after Chi, just before the crew had hit the Shadow Depository, and Wynona had jammed, John had Pilot scan her into the database, so that he could study her from every angle, find out just what the flaw had been.

It had turned out that the flaw had been in Wynona's firing chamber – amongst other things, albeit minor.

As explained to him by the gunsmith on the station, Pulse pistols worked "quite simply", which Crichton took to be a mild understatement:

Oil cartridges were actually _two_ cartridges, melded together. One contained Oil, the other an accelerant – basically metal flakes in a diluted Chakkan suspension. Inserting and then twisting the cartridge opened the prongs on the end and allowed the two to mix. Most veteran Peacekeepers could tell if the cartridge was full or almost empty by the smell – which was beyond Human ranges. John had discovered that he could tell by taste – and Crichton saw no reason not to continue. It was reliable. It was like olive oil, with a touch of cinnamon. The more 'cinnamon', the more quantity and potency to the mix. Nearly empty had no taste at all.

Once the cartridges were loaded, and the trigger squeezed, a tiny charge drew a single drop of the highly volatile Chakkan oil and accelerant into the pulse chamber, a highly-polished metal compartment where a millimicrot-length ionized plasma charge was sent through the oil which almost instantly superheated it to several thousand klances. Another near-instantaneous ion charge acted as an impeller which forced the now-lethal drop down the barrel of the pistol where it is then given a series of additional magnetic charges to boost its speed and then expelled at high velocities toward a target.

All of this happened in millimicrots. The pulse chamber in Wynona had been pitted from long use (_Wynona had been taken from an old consignment left on Moya_), and the charge had lost its potency. John had also been using both inferior-grade Oil cartridges – the oil and the accelerant mix had been bad – and inferior batteries (_located in the large front end of the pistol. One pulled the 'hook' down by one's trigger finger to open the compartment and change the batteries. They had a functional life of two cycles.)_.

He'd been impressed by the design. Fortunately, since Pilot had scanned them, that had also meant that he'd had what basically amounted to a complete set of _blueprints_ for Wynona, and he'd taken those with him to the gunsmith. The flaws had been corrected and they had worked impeccably against the Commandos on the station. It also meant that if he were to lose them, they could be easily reproduced.

He pulled another holster out, also custom-made, a shoulder holster, with another custom pistol for it, slightly smaller, also made to Wynona specifications. He put it on as well, adjusted it for maximum comfort, test-drew it a few times. Perfect. The right gun he'd dubbed "Betty", the left "Veronica." Just for the hell of it.

He would become proficient, he vowed, even though he was getting better all the time. He'd become an expert with his weapons. Assured death would ride in each fist. The bounty hunters would keep coming, the Peacekeepers would keep coming, and now the Scarrans knew that ol' Johnny Crighters had the ability to whack them, too.

He crossed to one of his new longcoats. All were identical. Worked into the lining across the shoulders, down the front, down the back, were thin but very durable sheets of composite – _armor-plating_. They had collars with a springy metal piece sewn into it. He smiled grimly – the composite was a ceramic/crystalline mix, and it had been expensive as hell too, but it would offer him some protection – and not set off any frelling metal detectors he might encounter. An interior pocket had been modified to contain a sturdy combat-grade knife. Various other hidden seams and pockets were all over, and all would hold whatever he needed. Pirates could teach you a lot, if you paid attention.

He pulled off his double holsters, hung them, left the smaller one where she was. Life was different now. He'd never go anywhere unarmed again. He even slept with a pistol near.

Moya shuddered out of starburst, Pilot informing everyone that she would require approximately two arns to execute another. Crichton stalked out of his quarters, hoisted the container, headed for the cargo bay. He made a mental note, that if they did find somewhere suitably competent to upgrade her, Moya would get the ability to starburst sooner, rather than later, if at all possible.

In the cargo bay, he stashed the container as far back into the bay as he could and promptly forgot about it. Crichton then checked on _Farscape_, nodded to himself that she was still ship-shape, rolled the ship into a small storage bay near the hanger and dis-connected all the power relays making the ship "safe", - threw a tarp over it, sealed the bay. He might have use for it – eventually. At the next Commerce world, he decided it might be worth selling. No one here could fly it with any real proficiency, and it could potentially be a hazard.

He walked out of the cargo bay, back up to Command. It was empty, save for Chiana slumped over the operations table. She didn't look all that well. She'd been sick ever since she'd returned from Thonexia.

"Chi – what's the matter with you?"

"_Frellllll_… remind me to prepare better the next time I go drinking with _you_."

Crichton walked to the table, looked down at her.

"_You_ followed me. I didn't ask you to come. And _you_ were the one pounding down Prejsin Mist Teas like they were going out of style. I told you that stuff wouldn't go well with Nebari physiology. You should have believed me." He winced at the thought of the seriously alcoholic stuff – it smelled like Valerian and tasted like kerosene smelled. If he recalled correctly, she and Jool had managed to cat each other into a drinking contest with the stuff.

Chiana glared at him, but there was a sparkle in her eye.

"Yeah, maybe, but you weren't shy with drinks, either." She was quiet for a while, then looked at him with slightly more apprehension. "Before you left us, did we, uh, you and I, I mean _do_… uhm…"

"What?"

"Well, it just felt like, I mean, when I woke up it, it felt kinda like I'd, y'know…"

"No - _what?_"

"_Had sex_." She whispered.

"Oh! Do you mean did _you and I_ have sex somewhere in all that?"

She nodded. He shrugged, checked the Operations console. He couldn't honestly remember if they had or not. He'd been pretty damn drunk at one point, and she'd been coming on pretty strong... and it wasn't like _he _was the Crichton who'd been telling her 'no' forever…

"I don't remember, Pip. Is it important? You'd feel bad about it?"

Chiana blinked at him. _John Crichton_ not caring if he and she had had sex? That was _supposed_ to be a big no-no.

"Uh, no... it wouldn't have upset me… if it had been _you_, I mean… I just would have liked to have been _awake_ for it…"

Crichton flicked a glance back at her, but didn't turn from the scan board.

"The odds are you were – but I don't remember." He paused, with a crooked smile. "Kinda wish I did." He looked back at her with a sly grin. "Maybe some other time."

"Uh..." Chiana blinked. Was it possible one of her dreams might come true?

"Pilot." Now ignoring her. Frell. Moment passed.

"_Yes, Commander?" _Pilot shimmered onto the clamshell.

"D'Argo fill you in on our idea to upgrade Moya – if it's possible?"

"_Yes, Commander. Moya is intrigued by the idea, although all attempts in the past that we are aware of have not gone well._"

"Let me guess – all died?"

"_Or have been seriously crippled."_

"With _care_, though, if we can find _real_ experts – do _you_ think it's possible?"

Pilot thought a few microts.

"_I believe it is – with care. It would depend a great deal on whether it is or can be done in line with Moya's own physiology."_

Crichton crossed his arms, started to think, mind running along possibilities.

"Because she's biomechanical, huh? That would make sense, of course. Can I assume past 'upgrades' were done mechanically?" Pilot nodded. "No wonder they failed. We won't even _attempt_ it, Pilot, if it looks like it'll go that way. I want to make her more _secure_ – not make it worse."

"_Moya understands that, Commander. If it can be done safely, she informs me that she has no objections – with only one proviso."_

"Which is?"

"_Moya insists that my Den also be made more secure._"

Crichton smiled. It wasn't a big smile, or even a particularly warm one, but it was a smile. Pilot noted that he was smiling much less than he used to – but he certainly understood why.

"Already in the plans, Pilot – no worries. If you would, I'd like you and Moya to discuss it – draw up a list of things that both of you think need greater protection, or enhancement. Hell – even stuff she'd just _like – _y'know, fuzzy dice, big new stereo. Whatever."

Pilot nodded, seemed to hesitate, said;

"_Crichton… Moya is also concerned that such upgrades may be prohibitively expensive."_

Crichton turned, nodded back at Pilot.

"That's not a consideration, Pilot. Just make that list – and don't worry about the cost. We still have tons of cash from the Shadow Depository raid – and two extra vacated shares we can dip into, if we have to, and there are plenty of other Depositories around, I have no doubt – you just make that list."

"_Very well, Commander. Everyone – starburst in 400 microts_."

Moya built into starburst, and Crichton sent one last look at Chiana, who was looking at him with some suspicion, dismissed her and then decided to go and assess their funds.

* * *

**DOVANNI NOTIA WAS, AS PLANETS GO, UNSPECTACULAR.**

One huge continent amidst a vast turquoise planetwide ocean, the interior of that continent an equally huge desert. Only the edges of the continent were green.

As they swung into orbit, Jool informed them that that continent was not where'd they'd be going.

"The Interion settlement is on the other side of the planet on a small island, well, a chain of islands." She told them.

"How are they on visitors?" D'Argo asked.

"Well, they're intellectual fundamentalists – but not particularly freethinkers, if you follow me. So, not particularly inclined, really."

"Hence the middle of nowhere." Rygel muttered.

Crichton jumped off the table he'd been sitting on, strode over to Jool.

"Tough. We won't be here that long. What's this information gonna cost us?"

"I guess that depends on who we ask," Jool replied. "The colony is basically made of expatriates – mostly people who disagreed with certain of my homeworld's policies."

"Which means what, exactly? Are they criminals?" Chiana asked.

Jool looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Not in the strictest sense. They're more like …rebels. You know my homeworld _is_ a meritocracy, but they think that's rather a bit… _much_, as it were. They're all descendants of members of clans that prefer the ancient caste system. It's complicated."

Crichton eyed her.

"Would this have anything to do with your leaving here under 'less than pleasant circumstances'?"

Jool cleared her throat.

"Something like that."

Crichton grabbed her arm, tugged her from Command.

"Tough. Whatever it was, you were still here before." He glanced over at D'Argo. "What do you think? _Lo'Laa_ or a transport pod?"

"A transport pod would be less intimidating – especially if they're touchy."

Crichton nodded, led them all to the hanger. He rethought his use of the Prowler. If he was forgoing using _Farscape_, having something with speed and firepower couldn't hurt. He'd have to check it out when he came back. If he decided against using it, he could always sell or trade it for something he _could_ use. Even as he thought about it, the idea of his own ship – something advanced - was definitely growing in appeal.

The trip down in the pod was quiet and uneventful, with Jool appearing more apprehensive the closer they got.

"What's the matter with you, Jool?" Rygel goaded. "Did you snurch something before you left?"

"No – and I resent the implication!" Her voice was higher than normal. Crichton glanced back at her, sighed.

"What did you _steal_, Jool?"

"Nothing!" Jool's hair was starting to go red.

"Jool…!"

Jool sighed, looked angry and desperate all at once.

"Look – I was on my Grand Educational Tour when I got robbed. I lost all my finances. I'd managed this far on what I had left. There's a gem mine in the desert on the big continent. I needed an 'in' here, so I arranged a few …things, and then – look, I needed money to get off the planet, so I borrowed a few! Just enough to get out of the system and meet up with my cousins!"

"I'll kick her eema so hard," Chiana grumbled. "It'll take me a whole day to pull my foot back out." D'Argo growled at the young Interion. Rygel just chuckled.

"Save it." Crichton chided. "We'll deal with whatever if it comes up – Jool said it herself – it _has_ been almost 23 damn cycles."

They landed the pod without challenge, without incident, just outside the only settlement.

"Let's keep our weapons low-key, kids. We'll be reasonable – depending." Crichton said, adjusting his shoulder piece, standing and fastening his longcoat. Chiana followed suit, and D'Argo tucked his Qualta behind him. They were more likely to wonder why a Luxan _wasn't_ armed than otherwise.

They stepped out into the moist air, the smell of brine reminding Crichton of his vacations with his father in Miami – a memory of which he almost immediately quashed.

Those memories belonged to someone else. _His_ father was a dead brain-sucking maniac. He knew he was going to get tired of reminding himself to correct himself, but it had to be done. He didn't need the distractions. Make it a habit, and problem solved.

They casually made their way toward the settlement edge, Crichton and Jool leading, D'Argo, Rygel and Chiana following. They were almost to a gate when two Interion males, armed, stepped into their path.

"Halt there, Peacekeeper!" the one on the left barked.

Crichton raised his hands, not high – just high enough to show he wasn't carrying.

"I'm not a Peacekeeper." He continued walking.

"I said, _halt!_ All of you!"

"Jool – you're up," Crichton said, pulling Jool around him and shoving her into the front. The men blinked when they saw her.

"Uh… hello. He's right – he's not a Peacekeeper. Is… Navria Atrekii Noma Denri Govali still in charge here?"

"What is with those frelling names?" Chiana muttered to D'Argo. He shrugged.

The male on the right eyed Jool suspiciously.

"Yes. How do _you_ know her?"

Jool said nothing, until Crichton poked her in the back.

"I… used to live here."

"That doesn't matter. Answer the question!"

Crichton was about to step forward when another voice intruded on the scene, a woman's voice.

"Oh, for frell's _sake_! Put the guns _down_, you fekkiks."

The Sebacean owner of that voice walked up and past them, slapping one of the barrels down as she passed. She stopped just shy of Crichton, smiled a large smile.

"Hello there. Sorry about the Paranoid Brothers. Can I help you?"

She was almost as tall as he was, with long, tied-up-in-a-high-ponytail red-gold hair, striking violet eyes with just a hint of a slant, and an oval face. White teeth flashed behind a set of full lips. She wore a long grey "lab coat" - like affair which hid nothing of a very strong and supple body beneath. She glanced at his companions, gave him a slower going-over, obviously liking what she saw.

"All we want is some information." He said, brazenly returning the favor. This woman was, well… _beautiful_. She looked, he suddenly thought, like Rita Hayworth – with obvious differences, of course. She smiled another broad smile - one of those smiles that made full-grown intelligent men feel like supra-dumb hormonal boys.

"'Information'? This rock is, quite frankly, the hind-end of nowhere. I'm Miriya Breannados." She somehow managed to sound throaty and sharp at the same time.

Crichton looked her over again for a long moment.

"Yeah, nice to meet you," he replied dryly, pointedly avoiding giving her his name. If she noticed, she said nothing. "It's nothing major, no state secret – as far as I know."

"Well, come on in, then." So saying, she turned, sauntered between the two guards, stopped, fixed the one on the left with a withering glare, said, "Go do something _productive._" which just caused him to scowl and back away from her. She glanced back at Moya's crew.

"Interions – smarter than all Hezmana, but no manners at all." The smile came back. "Follow me."

Miriya led them through the small village, which was remarkably advanced for being the "hind-end of nowhere". They were stared at as they went by, and then just as quickly ignored. At last they came to a house larger than the rest, and Miriya unhesitatingly went up the stairs, beckoning them to follow, and she led them into a large oval foyer.

"Wait here, I'll see if the old girl's awake." She padded through a door, disappeared. D'Argo stepped up behind Crichton.

"She's uh… well…"

"Unusual," Crichton finished his thought. "For a Peacekeeper."

"That's one way of putting it," Chiana chimed. " A tech too, from the looks of her. How often do you meet a Sebacean with a sense of humour?"

Crichton just scoffed, said, "Not often," looked around. The furnishings were sparse, the air inside flinty. Carvings and statuettes from what appeared to be several different cultures were arranged around the room. Dark, mirror-polished wood covered the walls. The place looked like large sums of money had been spent. The door Miriya had taken banged open and the woman herself strode through, stopped, held it open for a _much_ older Interion woman to follow.

Crichton didn't know how long Interions lived, but this woman looked to be pushing that limit – and hard.

"Thank you, Miriya," She croaked. Navria slowly made her way to the only chair in the room, Miriya behind her.

"Navria – these people are here looking for some information – nothing serious, I'm told." She glanced over at Crichton. "Isn't that right?"

"Yeah."

Navria squinted up at him, beckoned him closer. Crichton stepped closer, and she peered up into his face. She blinked, and for a moment, it looked like she recognized him.

"What do you want?" she wheezed. Before he could answer, however, the old woman caught sight of Jool, crooked a branch-like finger at her.

"_You_ – come here." Jool pointed to herself, looked confused. "Yes, you. Come here."

Jool reluctantly stepped up, and Crichton stepped out of her way. The old woman squinted up at her. The squint folded the lines of her face so tightly it seemed as if her features would vanish beneath them.

"What's your name – and _don't_ lie." Jool glanced back at Crichton, who shrugged.

"Joolushko Tunai Fenta Hovalis." She said, with a bit of trepidation. Navria squinted again.

"You have been away a long time, Joolushko Tunai Fenta Hovalis. Were you in _prison_ all this time?" Behind them, Chiana laughed, and the question pulled a few smirks across faces.

"No, Navria Atrekii Noma Denri Govali. I was… on my way to make restitution when my ship was attacked by slavers. We got sick, but I recovered, and then we were sold to organ harvesters. I spent 22 cycles in cold storage."

"Indeed," Navria rasped. "Your cousins?"

"They were worse, Navria Atrekii Noma Denri Govali – they didn't survive."

Navria went silent as she appeared to consider it, then looked up again.

"What do you want?"

"Just information. My companions wish to find Abbanerex. Will you help us?"

Miriya looked up when Jool mentioned Abbanerex, looked back at her companions appraisingly.

"I see no reason to help you, Joolushko Tunai Fenta Hovalis."

Jool tossed Crichton another look. He stepped up.

"What did she do?"

Navria looked at Crichton with a skeptical air, her eyes sharp. He suddenly felt like it would be a bad idea to argue with this one.

"She's a thief, a liar, and a whore."

Crichton sent the old woman a dry smile, and elicited a sharp look from Jool when he answered,

"Aside from that."

Navria straightened as Chiana laughed again, seemed to reassess him. She barely came up to his chest.

"You obviously know nothing of her." Navria shambled away to a chair, sat heavily. She eyed the group for what seemed like a long time, then sighed. "You will take Joolushko Tunai Fenta Hovalis to the Ej'djem Reach and the moon Davros - and you will pay her debts." Her voice brooked no debate.

"What? Why should we do that?" Chiana said immediately. "They're _her_ frelling debts!"

"Chiana!" D'Argo growled at her.

"Okay, the debts I understand. Why do you want her to go to this Davros?" Crichton asked the old woman.

"Because," Navria said, rising and hobbling away, her dignity immense. "That's where her _husband _had been waiting for her for the last twenty-four cycles."


	3. Chapter 3

**"HUSBAND?"**

They were all standing in a room ringed with windows of colored glass, Dovanni Notia's sun casting colors everywhere. Rygel was floating around looking at more statuary, Crichton was lounging in a chair, D'Argo merely standing behind Crichton, arms folded, Chiana perched on another chair, next to the silent Human. Jool was sitting on a wooden bench, looking everywhere but at them, pensive and jumpy.

"You never mentioned a _husband_, Princess." Chiana chided.

"I don't _have_ a husband." Jool replied petulantly. "Well, uh, not really."

"Oh, for frell's sake!" Chiana threw her hands up.

"Remember those 'less than the best of circumstances?'" Crichton echoed.

Jool nodded reluctantly. "I needed status to get near the gem mine. I don't _really_ have a husband. They _think_ I do. I never finished the bonding, so I'm _not_ married. They can't hold me to it!"

"Why? Was he ugly? Mean?" Chiana held up two fingers, apart only slightly. "_Little_?"

Jool shot her a disgusted look.

"No. I suppose he was nice enough." She frowned, sighed.

"What's the big deal? On Nebari Prime, marriages are selected by a frelling _committee_ – based on how well you serve the stinking Establishment! You can't even have a narl without a license!"

"That's rather repressive for such a supposedly advanced culture." D'Argo growled. "Even on my homeworld we can choose our own mates."

Chiana shot a glance back at him.

"Don't you have to _fight_ for them or something?"

"Well… It's all just ritual now… no one actually _dies _anymore…"

Rygel sniffed from where he was fondling a statue.

"On Hyneria the strongest male gets his pick of females. As it should be. I had several thousand." He smiled to himself and reminisced, feeling his age, suddenly.

"What's it like on Earth, Crichton?" Chiana asked, then catching herself, almost immediately regretting she'd asked. Crichton, however, didn't seem to care.

"That depends on where you live, Chi. Some cultures on Earth have arranged marriages, a hundred stupid taboos. Marriage was originally just a financial contract designed to merge monied, so-called noble families and increase their power. Spouses were picked by the parents. After a while religions started stepping in and it got injected with a lot of dren about 'love and commitment'. At least until prenuptial agreements were invented."

He snorted to himself, went on. "In the one I remember best, you tend to pick your own mate, supposedly based on love. Not that parents don't have opinions on the matter, of course, but it's basically up to you and her or him. The majority don't last very long. Humans are what they call 'serial monogamists'."

"Drad. Better than most."

"Doesn't matter." Jool said, still huffy. "I'm not going."

"Did you not listen to anything we said on the way here? You're _going_." Crichton snapped at her.

"_I am not going_! Why do think I tried to get off this planet as fast as I could in the first place?" She crossed her arms and petulantly turned away.

Crichton marched up, grabbed her arm, wrenched her around, which made her squeal, forced her to look at him.

"Look – Talyn is a weeken _at most_ from going completely frelling _nuts_ – you understand that? _Complete_ neural collapse! We _owe_ that kid – not to mention what it will do to Moya! Now if you have to go apologize to some guy you screwed over and ran out on cycles ago so that we can get that kid fixed – _then you'll do it_." He let her go, but not without a shake first. "This isn't about _you_ – so you'd better get that straight in your head."

_This isn't about Aeryn, either!_ Jool shouted at him in her head, but she knew better than to say it.

"Trouble?" another voice intruded. Miriya Breannados walked into the room, having changed from her "lab" coat number into what looked like a one-piece soft leather overall, with a fatigue jacket covered in pockets over it. Even with that on, she still looked like she'd be comfortable walking any runway in Paris or Milan.

"No. No trouble." Crichton told her, glaring at Jool. "Will Navria help us or not?"

"If Joolushko goes to Davros and deals with her husband, pays her debts, then yes. Otherwise no."

Five heads turned to the sulking Interion on the bench.

"What _exactly_ are these debts you owe, Jool?" D'Argo asked.

"Inconsequential. Not that much, at all." They continued to glare. She sighed. "I took five slonits of raw gemstones."

"And _that's_ how much?" Crichton asked relentlessly. Behind her, he could see Miriya thinking. She shook her head, laughed. Jool just looked more embarrassed.

"Twenty-two cycles ago it was worth more. Now it's about two thousand currency pledge's worth." Miriya told them.

Chiana gaped at her.

"Is that all!"

"It was apparently _enough!_" Jool bounced up, stalked away. "I needed it to survive!"

D'Argo sighed, reached into a pocket.

"Will they take krindars?"

"Wait. What's the alternative to Jool having no money?" Crichton asked.

"Work." Miriya answered, the smile still on her face. Jool's face showed that she was less than pleased.

"What kind of work?"

"Depends on Navria. Probably domestic stuff. It'll be drudgery, regardless." Crichton sat back down.

"Go work." He waved a finger at Jool then at the door.

"Why should I?" Jool seemed outraged by the idea. "It's only _two_ thousand!"

"It'll be two thousand _less_ we'll have for Moya and Talyn. We're not paying for you. Go work." His voice brooked no argument.

Jool's hair was a deep crimson red, but she ground her teeth, turned away, turned back, pointed a finger at Crichton. "I'm only doing it to help _Moya_ and _Talyn_. But that's all I'm doing! It might be the _last_ thing I do for you!"

Crichton just smiled a flat smile at her.

"Jool – if we can get Talyn fixed, I won't care what the frell you do."

Jool huffed, turned to Miriya.

"Where's Navria?"

"At her house."

Jool's hair was still bright-red, and she started to stomp off.

"I'm not spending days here." She growled.

"Don't worry – Navria's a bit of a traditionalist. She's more worried about your husband than the money." Miriya said, amused.

"Traditionalist? What's that mean? Will she have to swallow live frogs or something? French-kiss a Hynerian?" Crichton asked. Rygel _harrump_hed at that.

Miriya told him, her smile broadening.

"If I know Navria, it'll be something more akin to _penance_." Miriya's eyes glittered. "It can get pretty ugly."

"_Criiii_-tonnnnn!" Jool pleaded. He implacably jabbed a finger at the door.

"Just do it. We'll wait for you."

With a lot of muttered cursing, vows of revenge, and various wishes of harm to him and his subsequent generations, Jool went.

* * *

**CRICHTON SAT ON A LARGE ROCK, LOOKING OUT AT THE SEEMINGLY-ENDLESS EXPANSE OF OCEAN.**

The water was remarkably clear and he could easily see to depths impossible on Earth. He watched shoals of brightly-coloured, though vicious-looking, fish dart here and there. He'd been sitting on his rock for three-quarters of an arn, and had seen some pretty amazing animals, none more than the one that looked to be as big as _Moya, _with a mouth armed with the most impressive array of teeth he'd ever seen. It was a good distance away, but it still took a good ten minutes to go by, in no hurry. There were no birds, however. It was a little strange to be by the sea and not hear anything resembling a seagull. There were insects, however. _Huge_ ones. He watched one warily that had landed beside him a few moments past, hoped to hell it wasn't anything like a _mosquito_, for it was easily the size of a barn owl. It had darted off on some mission of its own a few moments later, and he was glad to see it go, hand coming off his pistol.

D'Argo and Chiana were roaming the little settlement, at a suggestion from D'Argo about checking for supplies, just in case, and Rygel was sleeping in the pod. Jool had been weighed down with containers and rods and mops and brooms – and she was now cleaning _every_thing in sight. She was far – _far_ – from happy.

Crichton had just wandered the shoreline, doing his best not to think. He'd finally found this rock that jutted into the water, sat down and tried to Zen himself out, just listening to the waves, watching the fish.

He heard her coming long before she said anything, smelled her on the breeze. Miriya smelled like an subtly-pleasing mixture of strawberries and roses. His mind flashed briefly to the Sebacean women he remembered – Gilina had smelled of oranges and honeysuckle. Jenavian Charto had smelled like a subtle cedar mixed with exotic spices. Katralla had a scent of orchids and lavender undertones. What _was_ it about Sebacean women that their natural scents smelled like they were all wearing expensive perfume?

"Am I intruding?" She finally asked him.

"Yeah. Problem?"

Miriya stepped out on the rock spire with him, sat next to him uninvited, turned a smile on.

"Not that I'm aware of. You interest me."

Crichton shot her a flat smile.

"I'm not exceptional."

Miriya got comfortable, her smile staying where it was.

"Oh, I don't know about that. I'd say the life of _John Crichton_ is pretty exceptional – if what I've heard is true."

He shrugged, she just laughed.

"Come on – it wasn't _that_ hard to deduce – Leviathans, a Luxan, a Nebari, a Hynerian, and Joolushko _did_ call you 'Crichton'. Pretty simple. What's the bounty up to now? Last I heard it was 10 million."

He went a little cold at that, and his voice was sharp.

"It's twenty-five."

Miriya just laughed again.

"Not bad." He shrugged again, and Miriya laughed. "What? I don't give a retsit's ass about any of that dren. I'm not a soldier – I'm a tech and damn proud of it." She shifted a bit, swung her long legs up, sat looking at him like she was just out to catch some sun.

"So – that son of your Leviathan you mentioned – that's the gunship hybrid, isn't it?"

Crichton just looked back out to sea, nodded.

"I'd love to have a look at him. I bet he's amazing."

"He's a good kid," Crichton said.

"What's his problem?"

Crichton sighed, looked back at her.

"Neural degeneration. A Retrieval Squad got a hold of him and started severing connections to his higher functions. It's just patchwork at the moment."

"Bad?"

"Bad enough."

She nodded, looked out to sea as another one of those massive creatures he'd seen early slowly swam past. Or it might have been the same one, just turned around.

"I think Abbanerex can help him."

"How would you know?"

She smiled.

"I work there. Well, sometimes. If I get a contract."

Crichton shifted on the rock.

"_You_ know where it is?"

"Sure. You didn't ask." She added, pre-empting him. "Besides – I like watching Interions _squirm_." Crichton couldn't keep the smile off his face.

"There you go," she said. "You're much better-looking when you smile."

"I sure am."

Miriya stood, stretched like a cat.

"Tell you what – if you can find some room on your Leviathan for me and my ship – _I'll_ tell you how to get to Abbanerex – and we can both watch your Interion squirm."

Crichton looked up at her, the interesting planes of a well-cared-for female body above him. He stood, walked off the rock, hit his comm.

"D'Argo – how are you doing?"

"_Not so well, John. Apparently most Interions are only slightly more tolerable than Jool."_

"Doesn't matter. We don't have to depend on Jool to get the location any longer. I found another source. How are you for giving somebody a lift?"

"_Whom?_"

Miriya leaned over, spoke into Crichton's comm, glancing up at him with that seemingly-perpetual smile as she did so.

"The new love of Crichton's life," she said, eyes sparkling.

"_Ah_." D'Argo came back dryly. "_As long as she doesn't make a mess_."

Miriya laughed lightly, stepped back.

"Frell knows when Jool's done. You guys may as well relax."

"_Alright, John. We'll meet you back at the pod_."

"Right."

Miriya turned, started walking.

"A Luxan with a sense of humor. They're usually so dour. I like him."

"D'Argo's not just any Luxan." Crichton said, coming up beside her.

"So I gather. Well, none of you are 'just any' anything now, are you?" She stopped, looked at him. "Do you swim?"

He glanced out to sea, at the thing with many teeth still on its way by.

"In _that_?"

"There's a lagoon on the other side of the island – only _little_ fish. Too shallow for that." She cocked her hip at him, swayed away. "Or you could sit around looking morose. Up to you." She walked off.

Crichton watched her go, thought a moment, and then followed.

* * *

**HE'D BEEN IDLY WONDERING WHAT A SEBACEAN BIKINI LOOKED LIKE, DECIDED THAT IT DIDN'T REALLY MATTER.**

He'd been stripping down to his shorts to enter the lagoon, but Miriya just pulled off her entire outfit, underwear and all and stood there un-self-consciously watching him. He blinked, abruptly reminded that he had testosterone, and _lots_ of it. She was toned and well-muscled, everything exactly where it belonged and extremely-well put together. Her skin was flawless save for a small crescent moon-shaped birthmark on her left breast. It didn't hurt her looks in the slightest. She tied up her thick hair, which didn't help his testosterone levels at all.

"Don't worry, the water's not cold." Was all she said.

He stood there a moment longer, a large part of his brain freezing in sheer admiration. He shook himself internally, got a grip on himself.

_What the hell. _He had nothing to be embarrassed about. _Different cultures, different standards. Who gives a crap? No division of labor in Sebacean society, and Peacekeepers didn't give a crap about nudity. Besides…_

_He_ was single.

Crichton just pulled everything off, piled it, made his shoulder gun waterproof, put it back on, not caring how it looked, smiled and said, "After you.", not missing the appreciative look she sent him. He'd worked rather hard these last six monen. He was probably in the best shape of his life – which he planned to improve on.

_Score one for the Creature._

Miriya walked a short way into the water, up to her knees, dove, began stroking out. Crichton couldn't see a single flaw anywhere, decided he'd just look, and if she resented it, she wasn't shy enough not to tell him so.

"So – what are you doing out here on a Interion colony, anyway?" He asked, lazily back-stroking by her. The water was slightly heavier than he was used to, felt thicker – his buoyancy greater.

"Favor for a friend." she said, turning over and emulating him. Crichton watched that body swim for a few moments, decided to watch the sky. "Just a standard run – they couldn't spare anyone. I live in the Ogg'M'nendi system, and it's on the way. I was on my way _back_ to Abbanerex actually."

"Peacekeeper?" She blinked, paused.

"Once. I was born on the planet Verakalos. It's a Sebacean Rim Colony. When I was thirteen cycles, I ran away and ended up getting picked up by a Conscription Squad. I showed an aptitude for machines, wound up a tech. If you ask me, I'm the best going." She winked at him, rolled over her on her side, still stroking languidly through the waves.

"So, you desert?"

She laughed.

"No – I died." At his questioning look, she continued. "I lived on a Command Carrier, serviced Prowlers and Marauders, and on and on, and one day I just got tired of it. You get exposed to other cultures, even when you're fighting them – techs are on battlefields you know – soldiers are useless at repairing their own equipment – and I just realized one day that I wanted to know more about those cultures, rather than just trying to exterminate them. Not something really all that encouraged. There was technology and ways of doing things I wanted to know about – and as a Peacekeeper that was never going to happen. At some battle or other - we were taking out a colony of renegade Sebaceans - when my team was sent out to reclaim some vehicles, we got hit by the enemy, and I took the opportunity to tender my resignation."

She squeaked suddenly. Something had grabbed her toe, held on. Crichton motioned her to stop, swam over as she hoisted a leg out of the water. A small iridescent critter that resembled a cross between a shrimp and a crab had a good grip, wriggling for all it was worth. He pinched it between his fingers, extricated it, tossed it far away, back into the water.

"Thanks. Little _buggers_." She stuck her toe at him. "It didn't take a chunk with it, did it?" He grasped her foot, looked at her toe. Except for a little scrape it was fine. He rubbed it with his thumb.

"Nope. Everything still where it was."

"Good. Blood will bring a _thousand_ of the little biters, and that can be a different story."

They went back to swimming, lazily heading back toward the shore.

"You tendered your resignation, you were saying…"

"Oh, right. We got hit by something explosive, and all my team were killed. There was a dead female nearby, so we swapped clothes. She was, well, unrecognizable. I left enough DNA behind for analysis – since I was bleeding rather heavily myself anyway - crawled away, and when the battle was over, was picked up by the other side. I just went my way from there. As far as anyone Peacekeeper knows, Miriya Breannados, PK Tech the Excellent, is dead."

He was silent for a moment, then he smiled his flat smile.

"Clever."

Miriya just shrugged.

"It worked."

Crichton stopped, a cramp in his leg. He might have been more buoyant, but the planet's gravity made the going harder. Miriya stopped, started swimming around him as he rubbed it out.

"_Your_ life has _got_ to be more interesting than mine, though. You're _not_ Sebacean."

"No." _And I'll bet your life is more interesting than you let on._

"Are you sure that your people aren't some ancient offshoot?" That was a question he'd never been asked before.

"Pretty sure."

Miriya seemed to be circling in closer as she spoke.

"Oh. It's an amazing coincidence then. You can't really tell the difference, just looking at you."

"Really? I've been told you can." He said wryly, remembering other comments in the past.

"There _are_ some, certainly." She came very close to him, stroked a hand across his back. "You're definitely warmer, you smell differently. Not bad, just different," She added, came sniffing around the front, close enough to slide her breasts over his chest, and he was trying to decide whether that was intentional or not, chose 'Didn't care.'

"And _blue_ eyes. Maybe one-in-a-billion Sebaceans have blue eyes." She smiled. "Even I'm a bit of a rarity. Violet ones. Not regulation at all."

Crichton smiled his dry smile back as she continued to circle him.

"'Rarity' is a good word for you."

Miriya had come back to the front, and drew up _very_ close, her intentions unmistakable.

"Thank you." she purred, voice a little husky. "I'm a firm believer in using time profitably. Are Humans?" Her hands were on his lower back, slowly moving down.

"They have nothing against it," he said, his hands already on very firm flesh, her skin smooth and cool. His hands roamed over it, enjoying it. Miriya must have liked it, because she just smiled her enormous smile and let him. She was doing some roaming of her own.

He then made the mistake of glancing toward shore. On it stood a large Luxan and slim grey girl - waving at him.

"Their friends, however, have _really_ lousy timing." He said, pointing past her. She looked, sighed, but the eyes she turned back to him still had a gleam in them. She pushed away from him, began swimming back to shore.

"It's at _least_ three solar days to Hogatha Primus. That's the planet Abbanerex orbits." She said over her shoulder, the purr still there.

Crichton ducked his head under the water to cool it off, came up, shook it, and with a smile followed her.

* * *

**JOOL HAD RETURNED TO THE POD, FILTHY FROM HEAD-TO-TOE, and didn't say another word until they were on Moya.**

Once onboard, she stepped out of the pod, walked over to a workbench in the hanger, tore the outfit she'd been wearing off with a series of savage pulls, grabbed a torch and with a very short, very piercing scream, set it ablaze.

With an immense dignity, naked as the day she was born, she marched out of the hanger. Having it turn out that she hadn't needed to do all she'd done after all left her exceedingly angry with all of them. She wished a particularly lurid and physically-improbable doom on Crichton, his ancestors back to the very first, and every subsequent generation he would father until entropy made the universe dark and cold.

"She took that better than I thought she would," D'Argo said, watching her go. The others just nodded.

"_Commander Crichton – another ship is approaching."_

"That would be Miriya. It's ok, Pilot – let her land."

"_Very well._"

After a few moments, the big doors rolled open, and Miriya's ship rolled into the hanger. It was a heavily-reworked and modified Marauder, painted a deep black, with gold and silver piping everywhere – "_My home away from home_," she'd said. "_I call it _The Edge_."_

Miriya stepped out shortly after, sauntered over to the group, looking around as she did.

"Impressive." She said. "Haven't been on too many _healthy_ Leviathans. What do you call her?"

"_We_ don't call her anything," D'Argo said. "Her name is Moya." Miriya just nodded. A DRD scooted up to look at her, and she reached down, scooped it up, causing it to squeak. It squeaked even louder when she flipped it over, examining it.

"Pretty standard DRDs. You might want to put these on your list, John. I redesigned these for Abbanerex – and not putting down their original designers – _mine_ are better."

Crichton just watched her flip the little machine around.

"How better?" he asked. Miriya reached over, did a little finger-dance on its side, cracked it open like a king crab at a buffet, exposing it's inner workings. It shut off as she did so. She pointed out various components as she spoke.

"Half-again as large. Better armaments for the armed ones, at least a half-dozen more and more varied armatures for repair work, better sensors, more accurate visual and tracking arrays. Even custom ones that do nothing but service a Pilot." She frowned a slight frown, made a slight adjustment in it, snapped the cover back on and it hummed back to life. She put it back on the floor, and it squeaked and sped away. "Even custom autonomous ones that aren't linked to either the Leviathan _or_ the Pilot – in case something happens to either. You'd still have functioning DRDs. I have a bunch at home that keep my shop clean – all equipped with their own AI, of course."

"I'll keep it in mind." He turned away. "Pilot – do you know the way to Hogatha Primus?"

"_I'm afraid that planet is not in Moya's database, Commander."_

"No worries," Miriya said. "I'll give him the coordinates. I've always wanted to meet a real talking Pilot, anyway."

Crichton gestured for him to follow her. The others followed them a way, then split off.

"You mean you work on Leviathans, but you've never seen a live Pilot?"

"Sure I have – just not a _conscious_ one – and I don't work on _Leviathans_. I've redesigned DRD's, worked on mods – but, like I said, only if a Warlord contracts or asks for me specifically. I have my own business."

"Wait a microt. _Warlord?_"

"Sure. The Ashkelon Warlords. Surely you've heard of _them._"

He nodded. He'd heard of the Warlords, all right. According to the Peacekeepers, the Ashkelon Warlords were criminals, heads of a criminal empire that stretched halfway across the Galaxy. Peacekeepers and Warlords were – officially – enemies. Practically, however, it was another story. The Warlords were the overseers of most of the best Shadow Depositories, and basically governed – "oversaw" - at least a hundred worlds. They indulged in criminal enterprise certainly, but they also had many legitimate businesses – the Abbanerex Leviathan Repair and Rehabilitation Facility being one of them. The Ashkelon Warlords were not typical 'mafia'-types, however. The Warlords had their own fleets, ships the size of Command Carriers, private armies that numbered in the millions. You didn't mess with them if you could help it.

"You said you had your own business? Doing what?" Crichton asked.

"I'm a custom modder. Starship modification, enhancement, or refitting. No questions asked."

Crichton chuckled.

"So, you basically run a chop-shop."

She smiled quizzically at him.

"A what?"

"There are people who do what you do on the Human homeworld – only to ground-based vehicles, usually stolen. It's called a 'chop-shop', because the vehicles are usually stripped down, have parts switched, are repainted and re-sold."

Miriya just nodded, smiled.

"Well, not _exactly_. Close, I suppose."

They reached the Den, and Crichton palmed the door open, stepped through. He walked up to Pilot. He was almost to the console when he realized that Miriya hadn't followed.

"Is there a problem?" He called back to her. Miriya replied, and she sounded a bit… sheepish.

"Sorry. Not big on heights. Probably why I haven't seen too many Pilots."

Crichton walked back, took her arm.

"Come on." She clutched his arm, and they made their way to the console. Pilot looked up with his doe-eyes.

"Miriya Breannados, Pilot. Pilot, Miriya Breannados."

Pilot nodded, said, "Hello", Miriya leaned over his console, eyes looking everywhere.

"Hello, Pilot. Do you have redundancies for this console?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Protected control nodes, in case your mains are blown." Miriya had practically climbed onto the console.

"Uh, no… it has never come up before." Pilot glanced at Crichton, who shrugged.

"You might want to think about it. Couldn't hurt." She also glanced back at Crichton, smiled, told Pilot the coordinates to Hogatha Primus.

"If we're dropping off Joolushko first, you can use Hogatha as a reference." She then gave him another set of coordinates. "That will get you to Davros. It's not a bad place, only been there once or twice, myself."

"Pilot – when we get back to Talyn, send him those cords. Crais and I will take him to Hogatha, while you take Jool back. Once you've done that you can come back for Moya's makeover."

"Agreed. Moya is very grateful to you for this, John."

"Forget it," he said. "The least we can do, Pilot. We should probably head back and pick up Talyn sooner than later, though."

"Agreed. We will starburst in 100 microts."

"Good enough." He turned to Miriya, who was still looking everywhere. "Come on – we probably shouldn't be in here when Moya starbursts."

She nodded, and they left the Den.

"He's amazing." Miriya said, when they were back in the corridor. Crichton just nodded. "He calls you 'John' though?"

"Yeah, on occasion. Why?"

"It's just unusual for a servitor to use a Captain's first name."

"I'm not the Captain. There isn't any – and Pilot's not a servant. He's the Pilot."

Miriya just nodded, digested it.

"Still, you should probably have a Captain. Pilots get a little jumpy if they serve too many masters – or so I've been told."

"I'll think about it."

"_Starburst in 15 microts, everyone._"

Crichton stopped, backed into the space between Moya's ribs in the corridor. Miriya took the opportunity to join him, standing very close, her hands on his hips.

"Never been through a starburst before, either, huh?"

She grinned up at him, shook her head.

There was a rolling shudder, and Moya blasted into slipstream.

"There. Not so bad."

"Not at all," she said, backing away from him.

He continued on up the corridor.

"Where are we going, by the way?"

"I have to stop in my quarters for a minute. Then we'll find you some."

She nodded, followed on.

When they arrived at his, Miriya followed him in, wandered around.

"I thought the habitation tiers were higher. Rather spare, aren't they?"

Crichton dug into a crate, looking for a datachip with specs on the Peacekeeper Prowler, intent on passing the time until Hogatha with some minor upgrading work of his own. Become the master of it all. _First things first._

His only commandment.

"Travel light." Was all he said. He looked down, looked back up at her. "The habitation tiers _are_ higher – twelve through fourteen. There should be one available."

Miriya walked back over, sat on his bed, bounced once or twice.

"What's wrong with these?"

Crichton stopped, grinned his flat grin at her.

"They're mine."

"What's your point?" she smiled back at him, that purr climbing in her voice.

Crichton looked at her sitting there, his mind rolling around in his skull.

_Are you going to spend the rest of your life out here turning down every woman because of one you will never see again? Should we get Pilot to find you a nice quiet monastery? Maybe a Diagnosian and have you neutered?_

He realized he was staring at her, and doing so, apparently, prompted her to stand. She came over to him, stopped for a moment, pulled off her jacket, unzipped her leather coverall down to almost her navel - and then abruptly shoved him onto his bed and sat in his lap.

"So Human males are a little slow," she jibed. "Any more differences?" she purred at him, making herself comfortable, moving her hips slowly on his lap, draping her arms over his shoulders. Every time she moved forward, smoothly-firm fragrant cleavage sorely tempted him.

"That depends."

She smiled, felt some_thing_ move. "_Hmmm_. Not _so_ different." She leaned in, kissed him _very_ thoroughly. "I should warn you, though – I'm not a typical ex-Peacekeeper. I'm not into that 'quick-let's-get-it-over-with' kind of recreation. I'm a _tech_. _I_ require both finesse and technique."

Somehow, and he couldn't remember how, her coveralls had managed to fall off her arms and pool at her waist, and an expanse of _very_ interesting flesh was currently goosefleshing under his fingertips.

"Lady…" he finally said. "I'm a frelling virtuoso."

"_Excellent._" She purred again. "As a cultural exchange, you understand…."

Crichton shrugged internally, relaxed, any ideas about giving a damn never crossing his mind. It had been one _long_ damn time between anything even closely resembling this.

First things first, definitely.

* * *

Chiana and D'Argo were passing by from the cargo bay on their way to Command when they heard feminine moans coming from Crichton's new quarters, an occasional breathless laugh, and Crichton making a few noises of his own. They looked at one another, and D'Argo quietly reached to the controls and closed the door they had left open. They walked away, up around the corner.

"Amazing what a swim can do for you," Chiana said, nonchalantly. "I'd say he was feeling …better."

"Certainly looks that way." D'Argo nodded.

"That's a good thing."

"Definitely a good thing."

Chiana had taken his hand.

"Looked like fun."

"Indeed it did."

They were silent for a few microts.

"Yours or mine?" Chiana asked.

"Mine are closer."

* * *

About two arns later, more or less, Crichton was laying on his stomach, getting his breathing back in order. Lying next to him, flushed a rosy pink and breathing deeply, Miriya was gazing at the ceiling, an odd look on her face. Crichton noted it.

"What?" he asked.

Miriya puffed out some air.

"What… exactly was _that_?"

_Weird Human sex, huh? Oh, well. _He could only do it the way he knew how. Maybe she'd been surprised by the duration. It _had_ been a damn good while since the last time.

He rolled onto his back, sat up. He glanced back at her, taking in the amazing body that lay behind him. She was still laying there looking at the ceiling. She was flushed, relaxed. She'd made enough noise, had certainly been enthusiastic, skilled, and nothing seemed to repulse her. She certainly didn't appear to have minded all _that_ much.

_Easy come, easy go._ He cracked his neck, stretched his back.

_Okay. That was definitely different_, Miriya thought, trying to think past the lovely, _lovely_ pulses in her belly. _So _that's _how Humans did it._ _Start out slow and then explode your brain. I can see how that could catch on. _She looked over at him, saw him with a look of vague regret on his face.

"Fine then." he said. "We're done." He started to rise.

"The _frell_ we are," she told him, then grabbed his arm, literally yanked him back down, and wiped that look right off his face.

* * *

**AT EVENING MEAL, EVERYONE WAS THERE.**

Jool sat in a corner, eating sullenly, her only response to any inquiries a "Shut up!", and she was subsequently left alone to sulk. Rygel was stuffing his face, as usual, eying the other four with suspicious looks.

"Thank you all for _bathing_, at least." He said between mouthfuls, seeing the glances and smiles dart between them. Crichton just ate. Moya was on her second starburst to Hogatha Primus.

Not that anyone had noticed.

"So, Miriya," Chiana said across the table, a gleam in her eye. "How do you like your first long-distance trip on a Leviathan?" Miriya, she noted, was still faintly pink, eyes sparkling.

"I'm going to recommend it to all my friends." She smiled a lazy smile back at the Nebari. Chiana giggled, glanced at Crichton. He was doing his best just to eat, although he raised his eyebrows at D'Argo who just rolled his eyes. D'Argo didn't begrudge John his fun, for Miriya _was_ a very attractive and desirable woman – he just thought it a little strange that Crichton, of all people, would indulge so _soon_. It had taken him _cycles_ to even think of a female that way after the death of Lo'laan.

"Miriya – " D'Argo asked, finally. "Is there anything we need to do for Moya or Talyn before we arrive at this Abbanerex?"

"I'd take an inventory of your finances." Miriya said between bites. "They're not cheap, I'm afraid."

"We don't expect them to be." He replied. "What do you think it'll cost?"

"Depends on what exactly you want done. Neural reconstruction on Talyn will be pretty involved. He'll be down for a _least_ a monen. I'd say, depending on how extensive the reconstruction is, you're probably looking at easily two million krindars for starters – and that's just for the reconstruction, not the rehab. Of course, it depends on your currency, too."

"And for Moya?" Chiana asked.

"Again that depends on what you're upgrading and what you have to pay with. I can tell you that if you go for rebuilding the DRDs, like I suggested, that alone - for example - will cost you about 250 CP's a DRD. That's my going rate - and I _don't_ take krindars, kretmas or ooliks."

"That's expensive for just _DRDs_." Rygel grunted, adding it up in his head. _What's wrong with ooliks?_ he wondered peevishly. Hynerian currency was as hard as anyone's.

"How many does a typical Leviathan have?" she countered. "Like I said, depending on what you want upgraded." She glanced at John. "This isn't a lighter, a frigate-runner or a typical civvie transport. It depends entirely on just what's needed, of course. Just understand that it'll be expensive."

Rygel sputtered. D'Argo countered.

"Rygel – this isn't just hanging up a few curtains and laying some new floor tile. This isn't about _us_."

"They'll just have to haggle." Rygel said, going back to eating.

Miriya laughed.

"Considering that Abbanerex is the _only_ place within about a _billion_ metras that _isn't_ Peacekeeper, equipped to deal with Leviathans as extensively – and expertly – as they do…" She smiled over at the Hynerian. " - and run by the Warlords - they _don't_ haggle."

"So don't try." Crichton finished his meal, put his dishes in the reclaimator. He stretched.

"Who's for sleeping?" He cracked his neck, rolled his back. "I think I could use some."

The others nodded.

"See you in the morning." He walked off, and Miriya tossed her tray into the reclaimator, followed him.

"Gonna sleep?" She asked him.

He grinned back at her.

"Been a busy day. Gotta sleep _some_time."

She was silent until they reached his quarters. She followed him in, closed the door.

"Gonna sleep _right away_?" she asked, kicking her boots into the corner.

He looked at her, a slow smile creasing his face. He was rather beginning to like this 'gorgeous-woman-actually-wanting-him' jazz. Run hot-and-cold? Not Miriya.

"Well… not _right_ away, I suppose."

"Smart move," She teased.

"You're completely incorrigible." He told her.

"Now, see…" she said, laying back on the bed, slowly unfastening her coverall. "I just _knew_ we'd get along."


	4. Chapter 4

**MOYA MET TALYN AT THE DESIGNATED COORDINATES, AND CRICHTON AND MIRIYA WENT OVER.**

They would proceed to Hogatha Primus and Moya would meet them there after they dropped Jool off on her homeworld. Miriya took Crichton over in _The Edge_, and he got a chance to see her handiwork. The ship looked like a Marauder, built on that spaceframe, but inside it was a conglomeration of disparate ship controls, parts. Astonishingly, however, it all worked flawlessly.

"If I ever get myself a decent ship, I know who to send it to for customization." He told her, impressed.

"You say the sweetest things," she smirked at him. "I'm not cheap either, John."

"I didn't expect you to be." He countered, earning a light punch in the stomach. Miriya piloted well, too, cruised smoothly toward Talyn.

"Where the hell did I put that duffel…?" Crichton said absently, wandered back to check. Miriya watched him go briefly, turned back to her controls.

She knew his history, more or less – well, knew the _stories_, anyway. It wasn't every day you met _legends_, and certainly not every day you recreated with one. She knew all the names, but there was one _not_ there, she'd noted. There was _another_ ex-Peacekeeper supposedly on that Leviathan, and she was conspicuous by her absence – the deserter Aeryn Sun. She was also supposed to be his _lover._ So… where _was_ she – and _did_ Miriya even care?

Not surprisingly, she didn't. Miriya had known who he was pretty much from the moment she'd seen him, and her intrigue had goaded her on for a while, led to her offer of recreation, which she'd been sure she'd regret. He was the most famous outlaw going after all, and handsome, which never hurt, and what-the-Hezmana, even if it had been _lousy_, well, doing it was half the battle won.

Only it _hadn't_ been lousy. It had been a little _strange_, she admitted, but that was only because he did things no Peacekeeper would have cared about – the point to recreation was to relieve tension and then sleep - but… _frell_ – she'd only slept the last two days after she'd been too _exhausted_ to stay awake. It wasn't supposed to take _that_ long to get to the main event, and if it did, it certainly wasn't supposed to feel that frelling _good_. He'd been frustrating and maddening, and she'd just laid there and taken it until those delicious little spots began dancing in her eyes and she'd grabbed his head, trying to keep him there and…

_Frell!_

_That_ had _never_ happened before. _She_ didn't want a man – _they_ wanted _her_. That was the point. She would, she figured, have to tread carefully. It would be too easy to ignore things if she indulged too much. Still… while she was _here_, there was nothing to stop her from indulging a _little_… As to regretting it – well, Miriya regretted little.

Miriya shook her head as he was returning, trying to concentrate on her approach. She again briefly wondered what happened to Sun. What did he do to entice her to desert in the first place – was it that thing he did with his lips on her…?

_Stop it, Miriya,_ she chastised herself. _It's just the novelty of it. Don't make a recreation into something it isn't. _There was a little voice somewhere down there, however, that was calling her a big fat liar.

Crichton stopped behind her seat, leaned over it, looking at the approaching Leviathan.

"Talyn's bay is a little different from Moya's," he told her, right by her ear. "The approach is a lot shorter."

She nodded, hesitated, looked back at him.

"It's just sex, right?" _Where the frell, _she wondered_, had that come from?_

"Just sex." he echoed. "It's just 'recreation'. Isn't that what you said? It's not like you _care_." He was looking out the main viewport. It wasn't said with any kind of reproach or coldly, it was just _said._

Miriya looked back to her controls, nodded, feeling oddly disappointed.

"You don't like it?" He asked, looking down at her.

"Oh, no," she laughed, suddenly. "I _like_ it."

"Life is cheap out here, Miriya. Enjoy it while you can, regret nothing." He said matter-of-factly. "All you ever have to say is 'no'."

She turned in her seat. No crisis. He understood.

"Just don't start something you can't finish." She said, with a smile. He was right. Enjoy it while she had it, remember that regret was not a concern.

"Have I yet?"

She leaned out, jabbed a finger in his face.

"Just remember that for later, mister."

He sat in her co-pilot's chair, put his feet up, looked insolent.

"Oh, I _will_."

* * *

**THEY STEPPED ONTO TALYN'S COMMAND, TO BE GREETED BY CRAIS.**

Crichton _was_ going to introduce them.

"Unnecessary, Commander," Crais said as he tried. "Miriya Breannados." He nodded at her.

"Captain Crais." She nodded back.

"You know each other?"

"Yes," Crais answered. "She was once the Chief Tech of the Genjki Regiment – a rather fast-rising star of the Tech Divisions if I recall correctly. Reports were that you were slain at the battle of Tebrin, Chief Breannados."

"Well, now, the reports were completely correct." She looked around. "A rather _different_ venue from a Command Carrier, isn't it?"

"I prefer it, to be honest."

"You have the coordinates for Hogatha, Crais?" Crichton interrupted. Moya had gone to starburst long since.

Crais nodded.

"Talyn, please prepare for starburst." Talyn warbled, and started to tuck in. There was juddering jolt and he followed his mother into slipstream.

"No pilot?"

"Unnecessary. Direct neural interface."

Miriya sent him a wry smile.

"Might explain a few things."

Crais turned casually to her.

"I see you haven't forgotten."

"I remember everything." She turned to Crichton, stepped closer to him. "You wondered why I faked my death?" she said, still talking to Crichton. "Now you know. Men like _him_." He just nodded, which she found oddly satisfying. "Do we get quarters, or are you the only one so privileged?" She asked Crais coldly.

"There _are_ quarters – small ones – Hammonside, tier two. You may have your choice."

"You're very gracious." She just looked at him, then Crichton, who nodded again, and walked out.

"Small frellin' universe," Crichton said, leaning against the manual override console, arms folded.

"It certainly appears so on occasion." Crais agreed. "Have you any information on what will be required to help Talyn, Commander? More details?"

"You know Miriya well?" Crichton asked instead of answering the question.

"Not particularly. She was under my command briefly – a few weekens. She was… insubordinate. She was enthusiastic for advancement, and I did not feel like accommodating her. I replaced her with… Velorek."

Crichton nodded, appearing not to care in the slightest.

"I can understand that. The Peacekeeper way." Crichton answered Crais' earlier question then. "The kid will probably be down for awhile. Miriya said something about neural grafts. I also suspect you'll be having to pull your plug to the kid for a while, too. How long depends on how extensively they'll have to rewire, as it were."

"I had suspected as much."

Crichton pushed off the console. "It should only take us about a solar day or so to get to Hogatha." He walked a few paces, stopped. "Oh, by the way, Crais…"

"Yes?"

"Keep in mind that since _we're_ paying for this – _your_ say in what happens is going to be rather…limited. This is for the _kid_ – not you."

"I understand that, Commander."

"Just as long as you _remember_ it."

Crichton walked out, and Crais followed him through the linkage, curious about him and Breannados.

Crichton found her on Tier Two, looking over quarters. She appeared to be considering one in particular. He looked in.

"Looks comfortable," he said in way of a hello, walking past her, looking around. He sat on the bed, laid back.

"It _is_ comfy." He quirked a grin over at her. "How are your regrets?"

"There aren't any I'm aware of," she said, going over.

"One thing – Crais can _see_ everything that goes on in this ship – through his linkage."

Miriya climbed into the bed, settled herself on his lap, put hands on hips, and smiled down at him.

"Really? _Everything_?"

"Everything."

Miriya leaned down, a gleam in her eye.

"Maybe he'll learn something then."

* * *

**"LET ME DO THE TALKING," MIRIYA TOLD CRAIS AS THEY EASED INTO ORBIT AROUND HOGATHA PRIMUS.**

"Very well." Crais replied, glancing at Crichton, who was standing stoically behind them. From somewhere, he'd managed to procure a bottle of fellip nectar. He had _thought_ he'd come to know this man's character over the monens he'd been onboard, as they dodged the Retrieval Squad. Given the last several arns, he found he wasn't quite as sure now.

He had seen a passionate, loving relationship bloom over those monens, and it had surprised him how quickly this one seemed to forget it.

Another glance caught Crichton grinning coldly at him, but he said nothing.

Crichton was watching the planet roll around outside the forward viewport, and talking to someone he hadn't seen in a while.

"Yo, Harve - where the hell have you been? Unlike you to keep your mouth shut this long."

Scorpius' doppelganger was "wandering" around Talyn's Command, and had stopped behind Miriya, casting an appreciative eye over her.

"Merely giving you some _space_, John – after your recent… trauma."

"_Trauma_. Interesting word for it. Do I _act_ like I've been traumatized?"

Harvey wandered around Miriya all the way, a leer on his face.

"You do, actually. Interesting therapy you've chosen, however. Ms. Breannados here is quite fetching. Definitely worth exploring, I think."

Crichton chuckled in his new dry way, without humour.

"That she is. Doubtless layers upon layers, Harve."

"I am fairly certain I can help you there," Harvey grinned at him.

"Later."

"Pity."

Crichton shrugged, took a swig of his nectar.

"Depends on how you look at it. Whatever happens, I see nothing wrong with enjoying myself in the interim. _She_ did the offering."

"Do I detect just the faintest trace of bitterness in your tone?"

Another swig.

"Women are stronger than we are, Harve. In the end, it won't trouble her for a microt. Why would it?"

Harvey looked her over again.

"_Tsk_ – cynicism in one so young is unbecoming, John."

Crichton just scoffed.

"What do you want, anyway?"

"Simply to voice my concern over your recent state of mind."

Another swig.

"I'm fine, Harve. Can't _you_ tell?"

Harvey stalked back toward him.

"I believe this belief you have been concocting of late is dangerous to contemplate. My presence in and of itself should be all the proof you need."

"What 'belief'? Proof of what?"

"That you are _not_ John Crichton."

Crichton just smiled at Harvey, took another gulp of nectar.

"Why? Because I have the face, the voice, the name? _I_ didn't even rate a 'frell off'."

"And how is _that_ proof of anything?"

"Women are more intuitive than we are, Harve. They _know_."

It was Harvey's turn to scoff.

"That is a shaky proposition for which to base an entire life, John."

"People live their entire lives based on silly beliefs all the time. Look – if I'm a copy, so are _you_. Would a copy _know_ it was a copy if it were a good enough copy, huh? Think about _that_. Seriously." He chuckled. "Your template in Crichton rebelled and the Ancient erased him."

"I'm aware."

He eyed Harvey for a long moment.

"You work _for me_, Harve. Do you understand? I will lobotomize myself before anyone _ever_ again gets inside my head. And _you_ can _also_ be erased."

Harvey could feel how deadly serious Crichton was - he nodded.

"I _am_ your ally, John."

"No, Harve. You're an _employee_. _My_ brain, _my_ space. You're gonna start paying rent." He shrugged. "Or you get evicted. Couldn't be simpler." Crichton dismissed him with a "You _think_ about it, Harve. Contemplate it. Things are different now."

Without saying anything further, Harvey nodded, vanished. Crichton looked up to notice both Miriya and Crais looking at him oddly.

"What?"

"We have clearance to dock, John. I asked you if you were okay with that."

He shook his head, took another gulp of fellip, walked forward.

"Yeah, of course. Let's do this thing."

Miriya nodded, and told Crais to head for the station that was looming before them. Crichton looked out and saw it then.

Abbanerex was huge, a central vertical complex with long cylindrical tubes running horizontally to it. It looked like someone had supersized a game of jacks – with balls and jacks stuck together. There also appeared to be a great deal of activity around it. He counted about four Leviathans already docked to the station, and as they came around, he could see others in the long tubes, being swarmed over by tiny figures. The tubes, he deduced must have been the repair and rehab bays. Talyn eased into a standard docking port, there was a slight bump, and then he stopped.

"We are docked," Crais informed them. "Talyn reports grapples and processing tubes are being attached to him."

"That's a standard courtesy, Abbanerex will top off his calorics." Miriya said. "He'll also be scanned."

"Scanned? Why?" Crais seemed not too pleased with the idea.

"Any Leviathan that comes here comes here because the crew requires repairs or whatever – no other reason. He'll be scanned to see if he qualifies, and for security reasons. The Warlords have standards about what they'll tolerate when it comes to mods on Leviathans. I probably should have told you this earlier – Talyn might not qualify."

"Excuse me?" Crais asked, curtly.

"Yeah – you might have informed me of that little detail a few days ago, Miriya."

"Well, he's a special case, because he's _armed_ – some people try to arm Leviathans _artificially._ He was born this way, so they _might_ make an exception."

Crichton turned a baleful look on her, turned and motioned Crais to follow.

"They had _better_. We haven't come all this frelling way for nothing."

He stopped at the door, and Miriya came as well.

"And we're not leaving until he's _fixed_ – one way or another."

* * *

**"DESPITE WHAT YOU MAY HAVE HEARD, WE _ARE_ A LEGITIMATE BUSINESS."**

Crichton, Miriya and Crais were standing in the Chief Controller's office, a V'rahn, as Miriya informed them, genetically-engineered by the Ashkelon – born bureaucrats and administrators. They were officious, stubbornly single-minded and utterly loyal to the Ashkelon, as the Ashkelon intended. V'rahn ran every Warlord's businesses, both legal and otherwise. They were androgynes, neither male nor female, and everything about them seemed straight – straight dark hair, straight features, stiff poise and rigid seating. This one was named Lehnkminn. Lehnkminn was firmly in charge, and s/he was eying Miriya with some distaste. Lehnkminn's assistant was a swarthy Interion, by the name of Vittiga.

Standing in a corner with her arms folded was a female that looked remarkably like a Nebari, but wasn't. Her skin was a lighter grey than Chiana's, and her hair was a dark amber. She was also dressed far more conservatively than anything Chiana would have been caught dead in. As Lehnkminn began a tirade about Peacekeepers to Crais and their general ill-treatment of Leviathans, Crichton leaned over to Miriya, nudged her, pointed discreetly to the female, whispered:

"Hey – is that a Nebari?"

Miriya smiled.

"No, common mistake. _That's_ Shee'ladahalia Muukarhi. She's a Kia'Baa'ri, a distant Nebari genetic cousin species."

"Ah."

"If you want _anything_ done to your Leviathans, you'll be _very_ nice to her." Miriya turned her attention to Lehnkminn, whom was still admonishing Crais over Talyn's condition.

"Stop that! What's your problem? These are _legitimate_ customers."

"Do you think we're fools, Breannados?" Vittiga asked her with disdain. "We're well aware of the identities of these 'legitimate customers', and well aware of the abomination currently parked in Bay 13."

Crichton and Crais took exception to the word, both taking unconscious steps toward the man, and Miriya had to stop both before they said or did anything precipitous. Muukarhi noted it.

"Watch your mouth! That wasn't his fault, and you know _that_, too."

"Miriya…" a soft voice came from the corner. Muukarhi stepped out. "Do you vouch for these people?"

"Yes. This is a straightforward deal."

"There are specific standards we follow." Lehnkminn said.

"Ah," Crichton said, scorn dripping from his voice. "Codified _bigotry_, is that it?"

"_Ethical standards_," Lehnkminn countered, with an identical scorn. "Vittiga is correct. We don't modify Leviathans already modified, and we do not help those who exploit them to turn them into vessels for war – or outlawry."

"Give me a break," Crichton fired back. "The kid out there was the product of tampering, yeah, but _he's_ not to blame for it. The other Leviathan that we've got coming in a day or so is _free – _no collars, no compulsion."

"I know who you are," Vittiga spat. "_John Crichton_ – you're an outlaw, a fugitive and a criminal."

"You shouldn't believe all the propaganda you see and hear, boy." He walked up to Crais, slapped an arm around him. "_This_ is the sumbitch responsible for Talyn out there – my boy Former Peacekeeper Captain Bialar Crais." Crichton laid a big smooch on his head, which Crais suffered in silence. It wasn't the first time this had happened. "And I'm only a criminal as far as the _Peacekeepers_ are concerned. Do the Ashkelon kiss PK ass?"

"They do _not_," Lehnkminn said, completely offended by the idea.

"And you shouldn't buy their crap, either." Crichton snapped at him, releasing Crais. He tossed a flimsy on Lehnkminn's desk, who eyed it as if it would bite.

"What's this?"

"Our _Pilot's_ list of upgrades – and the damage assessment on Talyn." Crichton then picked up a large sack that he'd brought with him, tossed it on the desk. It was heavy and loud. "_That's_ to get you started."

Lehnkminn looked over the list, started to look surprised, glanced up at Crichton.

"I haven't seen what's on it, and I don't care what's on it. I just want them both healthy, able and safer. Now, does _that_ fit into your ethics?"

Lehnkminn glared up at him for a moment, looked back over the list.

"It's legit, isn't it? Am I wrong?"

"No. You are not wrong." Lehnkminn eyed Crichton for a moment, rose. "Very well. These _are_ upgrades and reconstructions that the Leviathans themselves want?"

"Feel free to ask them yourself."

"We _will_, I can assure you." S/he handed Crichton a tablet, pointed to a spot. "Press a digit there."

Crichton looked it over.

"It's just a standard contract." Crichton just quirked an insolent smile at him, handed it back to Crais, who began to read it out loud.

"Well? Do you understand and comply?"

Crichton looked at Crais, ignored the V'rahn, until Crais finished reading, looked back at him with raised eyebrows.

"_That's_ a standard contract?" Crichton asked. The thing had more provisos in it than the prenuptial agreement between two career corporate lawyers.

"Yes." Vittiga said, all officiousness.

"The hell. I want a quote _before_ I sign anything. Not a price list at the end when it's all said and done and I can't object."

Shee'ladahalia Muukarhi stepped forward then. She looked very calm, and was very pretty.

"We cannot say until we've had the chance to examine them thoroughly." She sent Crichton an appraising look. "Surely you understand that."

Crichton returned the look.

"I understand a jerk-job when I see one, yeah." It was their turn to bristle. "Our Pilot was _very_ specific, and Crais gave you a detailed workup of what's wrong with Talyn – so what the frell _is_ the problem?"

Muukarhi smiled at him.

"It will be reasonable."

Crichton looked at her, then at Miriya, who nodded. He took the tablet back from Crais, grabbed Crais' wrist and pressed his thumb on the spot indicated, handed it back to Lehnkminn.

"This way." Muukarhi said. "I will be overseeing all the repairs and upgrades on your Leviathans."

He nodded, and they followed her out, Crais behind Shee'ladahalia, Miriya with Crichton.

"A few further questions." She said, as they went down the corridor. "Does this Talyn have a Pilot?"

"No," Crais said. "I communicate with him via a direct neural interface."

She stopped, looked concerned.

"May I see it, please?"

He turned, showed her.

"It will have to be removed." She said at once. "All of it. If he wishes to make you another after he is repaired, that will be his choice. You cannot stay connected to him during his repairs." She took a closer look at it. "It is very crude. Given time this transceiver will damage you – and it has probably contributed to your Leviathan's deterioration as well. Work cannot begin on him until it is removed, so I suggest you proceed to our surgery as soon as possible."

Crais glanced at Crichton.

"I will have to inform Talyn of that myself. At the moment, he will not believe it coming from anyone else."

She nodded. "Very well. The sooner the better."

They finally entered the controller office off the docking bay, and the Kia'Baa'ri went in, retrieved a sheave of papers, came back out.

"The initial scan report on your Leviathan," she told them, looking it over. "Extensive neural degeneration. You did well bringing him here. Neural repair is my specialty." She read on. "May I assume that the neural overlay we've detected are _your _mental patterns?" Crais nodded. "An interesting stop-gap. It is a miracle that Talyn is still functioning – the damage is extensive."

"That's why we're here," Crichton told her. "Can he be fixed?"

"Yes. It will not be easy, but it can be done. We will be able to retain much of his personality, but he will not be the same. There will be differences. Many of his neural linkages have deteriorated to the point where they cannot be re-grown. They will have to be replaced with grafts. Many of his sub-systems will also have to be repaired or replaced."

Another Sebacean from the office stepped out, handed her a tablet.

"You have sufficient funds for us to repair and rehab Talyn. There was not enough in that bag for both your Leviathans, however."

"There's more on Moya." Crichton said. "As soon as she drops our Interion on Ej'djem Reach, she'll be coming here."

"_Your_ Interion?"

"We found her." He smirked. Muukarhi shrugged.

"Captain Crais – your transceiver."

Crais put his hand on it, nodded.

"Very well, I will inform Talyn. Excuse me."

Crais headed down the docking tube to re-board Talyn. They waited, and a quarter of an arn later, Crais returned. He stepped out, looked at them, asked Muukarhi:

"Where is your surgery?" She pointed down another corridor.

"That way. Neela Dooma will show you." She gestured to another woman, who indicated that he should follow her. He looked at Crichton, seemed to hesitate.

"It's for his own good."

"You are correct, of course." He sighed, followed Neela Dooma.

"He cares for Talyn." Muukarhi observed, watching him go.

"As much as he can care for anything, I suppose. Peacekeepers aren't exactly known for their empathy." He ignored the look Miriya threw at him. "When can you start?"

"Talyn will be anesthetized, and then we will take a more complete inventory of his systems. If you have any personal belongings you require, or a ship, I suggest you remove them now. You will not be able to go back onboard during the anesthetizing process. It is lethal for anyone not a Leviathan."

"Fine." He started walking toward Talyn. They followed him. Muukarhi turned to Miriya, who was still looking at Crichton.

"How did you find Dovanni Notia, Miriya?"

"Oh, same as always. Navria sends her regards."

Muukarhi nodded, and Crichton turned off from them once they were onboard, to check Talyn's command for any communications from Moya – just in case. Granted, there wasn't much they could do if there was trouble, but you never knew. Shee'ladahalia and Miriya continued on to Talyn's hanger.

"Interesting company you are keeping, Miriya." Shee'ladahalia said after he had gone from earshot.

"Not the first outlaw I've ever met, y'know."

"John Crichton…" Muukarhi mused. "…is not just any outlaw, if the stories are to be believed."

"No… he's not. He's… different, to say the least." Shee'ladahalia eyed her with suspicion, a knowing look.

"You do not believe in wasting time, do you?"

Miriya smiled. "Not when I'm interested, no. Why should I?"

Shee'ladahalia just shook her head, amused.

"Sebaceans… it is your life." She examined the corridor as they passed through it. "This is the most unique Leviathan I have ever seen."

"He's different all right." Miriya agreed. "I had a brief look at some of his schematics on the way. You would not believe the weapon system potentiality he possesses. Even naturally-generated defence shields - eventually. He's a bit young yet, though."

"Lehnkminn very likely agrees with Vittiga – about this vessel being an abomination."

"Vittiga's a silly fekkik. The _project_ was an abomination, Shee. This Leviathan had no control over his birth, or what he is. Just another one with a life he never asked for forced upon him."

"That is true." Shee'ladahalia agreed. "We will help him, if we can."

They arrived at the hanger, and Miriya led the way up to her ship.

"I see you've finished it, finally."

"A beauty, isn't he?"

Shee'ladahalia smirked at her friend.

"If you like Peacekeeper design aesthetics." Her attitude was that she did not.

"It works. Wanna take a run with me?"

"Some other time. We'll be starting on this Leviathan right away."

Miriya nodded, headed up the ramp onto her ship.

"One thing, Shee. Crichton really _does_ regard these ships as individuals, and his _friends_. He's rather touchy about them."

"That is very unusual. Do you like him?"

Miriya stopped, but did not turn around. She sighed.

"More than I probably should." She continued into the ship, told the walls therein, "More than is good for me, no doubt."

* * *

**CRAIS FOUND CRICHTON IN THE ACCOMMODATIONS PROVIDED FOR THE CREWS OF THE LEVIATHANS ON THE STATION.**

It was several arns later, perhaps half the day. He was still feeling a bit peculiar without the Hand of Friendship, and the silence in his head where Talyn used to be. Talyn had told him that, hopefully, he would be in a better position after his repairs to fashion him a better one.

"Yo, Crais – " Crichton called to him as he entered. "Neck sore?"

"Yes." Crais sat on one of the couches in the small living area.

"It'll heal up by the time Talyn's done. You up for a little trip?"

"So soon?" Crichton nodded. "Where? What is the problem?"

"The kid, of course. You heard Shee'ladahalia. Talyn's neural linkages can't be re-grown, and he _is_ going to need grafts – and they don't have any here. Nothing they can use, anyway."

"Are you suggesting we find another Leviathan and harvest new ones?"

"Don't be an idiot. Of course not." Crichton paused. "Well, not exactly. Miriya had an idea of how they can go about it, and it sounds doable."

"Where is Chief Breannados, may I ask?" He said, looking around the room.

"She has her own quarters here, Crais."

"Ah. What was her idea?"

"Go to _Kaltya Yaryn_ - the Leviathan Burial Space. Find a Leviathan near death and ask for a donation, or one just freshly dead – sounds ghoulish, but it's that or nothing. Shee'ladahalia agrees that that's the only ethical thing to do, even if it is still a bit dodgy. It's that or the kid stays the way he is – and I think you don't really want him completely rewired, which is the only other alternative."

"No. It would take _cycles_ for him to recover – and he would no longer _be_ Talyn."

"Exactly."

"When do you wish to leave?"

"As soon as. I'm not going, but _you_ are. We're going to wait here for Moya. I figured the least _you_ can do is get the tissue. You need sleep?"

Crais nodded, feeling very weary and discouraged.

"You can sleep on the way. You and Shee'ladahalia and a small team of techs will be going in one of the station's transports."

"Very well. Do I have time to at least clean up and refresh myself?"

Crichton nodded to the back.

"Yeah – go ahead. Head to Hanger three-three-five when you're done. Oh, and take a gun."

Crais hauled himself up, trudged to the refresher, said "I shall be there as soon as I can," closed the door.

Crichton eyed the door for a moment, shook his head and left. Life in the Uncharteds just got more and more interesting by the day. Go to Kaltya Yaryn and ask one of the dying behemoths if it wouldn't mind them borrowing a chunk of its brain and nervous system.

He chuckled to himself.

_Hell – it beat fighting traffic and paying the mortgage, huh, Johnny?_

Crichton sighed internally, continued on. Sitting around waiting was not something for which he any longer had the patience. He'd done that already, and it had gotten him nothing, just screwed and left behind.

_Hell_ – maybe he _deserved_ to be left behind. He hadn't been born on Earth, but on a dying Leviathan, just a bastard son of an psycho brain-eater.

Well, then.

If he wasn't the original, then he didn't matter. The Ancient who had unlocked John's head would have known which was which, surely, even if She hadn't. It made sense. He'd not seen hide nor hair of any since, not felt the buzz in his head, not come across a single wormhole, couldn't even call one up with the "slingshot" maneuver longer than a few hundred microts. Zip, nada, nothing.

If he didn't matter, then what difference did it make as to what he did? Did he have any responsibility to his friends? If he was just a copy, did he owe anyone anything? Moya? Sure. Talyn? Yeah, sure, why not? The rest? They still treated him the same, still thought of him as Crichton, were still his friends in their own heads. He wouldn't just abandon them, no, but he was finding it harder and harder to feel a sense of responsibility for them. If he was the copy, all the things that had happened _before_ his birth had nothing to do with _him_. He was only nine monens or so old. Agreements, partnerships, allies – null and void. If he wasn't the _real_ Crichton, then none of that applied.

He could tell that his friends were a little mystified by his rather quick falling-into-the-sack with Miriya. John Crichton had loved Aeryn Sun, she had loved him, and well, they _were_ together and all peachy now, weren't they? The relationship between those two people meant nothing to him. Even if he _did_ still feel for her, she wouldn't have cared - and didn't, hadn't anyway. She'd made that more than clear – he had not existed as an entity unto himself and never would.

Just Kaarvok's Creature.

Just the punchline to an unfunny joke at which only he found worth laughing.


	5. Chapter 5

**"WHAT DO YOU WANT, VITTIGA?"**

Vittiga eyed the figure before him with disdain. He'd come here for a reason.

"Out of this deal." He said.

"What are you worried about, Vittiga? All you'll be doing is erasing all traces of our friends that are to follow to the Leviathan Burial Space - and those who'll come for Crichton." He was told, coldly. There was no doubt of the consequences should he refuse. "It couldn't be simpler. You'll be doing nothing that requires you to actually _exert _yourself."

"I don't want Shee'ladahalia harmed."

"She won't be."

Vittiga seemed to consider.

"Very well."

"Good. Don't look so glum, Vittiga. You're not betraying anyone – you are helping in the apprehension of some very dangerous criminals."

"They are criminals to _Peacekeepers_."

"Criminals are criminals – to everyone."

"An interesting philosophy." Vittiga said curtly. "I want my payment _now_."

There was a solid clunk at his feet.

"There you are – that's _your_ philosophy, isn't it? Reward merit? Consider it rewarded."

So saying, a hand was breezily waved in dismissal and Vittiga walked back to his window, looked out at the long tube his office overlooked, at the stars beyond.

_Damned gambling debts._

_

* * *

_

The exploiter of Vittiga's weakness walked calmly to a seldom-used dock, stepped out to eye the figures that awaited. Three Invidid symbiotes, sly and deadly, their shapeless forms encased in their globular armor, an insectoid killer called Hafta'lal'ta wanted in four dozen systems - and a Se'em'aari Triad, legendary assassins, sisters, cold and remorseless, covered in deadly spikes that they could fling with an uncanny accuracy.

They were looked over, approved, paid, and then directed after their prey. They dispersed to their ships.

Their employer stopped, watched the ships leave, sighed, and then left the dock.

* * *

**DAVROS WAS A VERY BUSY PLACE.**

It was part of the so-called "Ej'djem Reach", a system of habitable moons surrounding a huge gas giant – the Ej'djem of the title. The Reach was a major commerce centre on the edge of Interion Space, spacecraft were thick around it, spaceports and stations seemed everywhere. It looked as if an accident would happen at any moment, but such was there a high level of professionalism from traffic controllers that everything went smoothly.

Davros was, for all intents and purposes, a planet-size _mall_, a moon in orbit of Ej'djem, specifically geared toward a broad range of commerce, whereas the other moons tended to specialize. A sister moon, Belvros, for example, dealt almost exclusively with weapon sales. It was ostensibly overseen by the Commerce Arm of the Interion Government, but everyone who did business there knew who really ran the place.

Surprisingly, they detected other Leviathans in orbit. Pilot reported all were free, which struck all as unusual, but perhaps not too unexpected. They were far from Peacekeeper space.

Moya eased into orbit, trailed by half-a-dozen automated watch drones. The traffic was _thick_.

"Hectic, isn't it?" Chiana chirped.

"The Ej'djem Reach is the most populous outpost of civilization that borders Interion Space. We're just on the edge of it. My people possess at least one hundred colony worlds, as well as at least a hundred outposts and stations all over this sector alone. Interions have had space travel for almost three thousand cycles." Jool told them, with no little pride. Rygel floated up behind her.

"Hynerians have had it for thirteen thousand cycles."

"Nebari have had it for ten thousand."

"You can both shut up."

Jool glowered at the forward portal.

"We did have other things to do, like creating one of the most civilized societies in known space, Rygel, not worrying how much space we 'conquered' - that's why we're so sought after as teachers and instructors." She pursed her lips.

"I'd never heard of any of you until Crichton thawed you." Rygel told her blandly.

"Me, either." Chiana agreed with him.

"I said, you can both _shut up_." Jool growled at them, prompting smiles from the co-irritants.

"This husband of yours is down there?" D'Argo interrupted.

Jool shrugged. "I assume so. I haven't seen him in 24 cycles remember, and even then, I was only 'with' him for less than a monen."

"Do you remember his name, at least?" D'Argo asked, watching the Operations console as Moya at last came to a full stop.

Jool thought a moment, surprised herself.

"Yes. Evigan Koiban."

"Fine. There has to be a registry or something of citizens. We'll see what we can find. But you have until Moya has rested for a few arns, and then we _have_ to return to Abbanerex."

"That's all it should take to annul this farce." Jool muttered. "Fine, if I have to do this, I want to do it sooner rather than later."

"I'll go down with her." Chiana volunteered. "Maybe I can get some shopping in, look for supplies."

"Supplies are a good idea. We couldn't get anything on Dovanni Notia." Rygel concurred.

Jool seemed to like the idea of not going down there alone.

"This _is_ a Commerce planet – and a rather good one, D'Argo."

D'Argo eyed them both a moment longer, and then nodded.

"All right. We'll go down and you can deal with this Koiban fellow – and we'll look for supplies." D'Argo shook his tenkas. "Then we get the frell back to Abbanerex."

All agreed and Chiana and Jool were heading out of Command, Jool not at all enthusiastic.

"I can understand wanting to get Moya back and fixed up, but is there really this much of a rush?" Chiana asked him as they headed to the hanger. "We _can_ trust this Crichton. He's _Crichton_."

"That's not it, Chiana." D'Argo replied. "Something's not right about that place. Or this place. I don't trust the circumstances. So watch yourself."

* * *

**D'ARGO'S ADVICE WAS DEAD ON THE MONEY.**

They had not been on the planet a full arn when trouble found them. They were in the central port, D'Argo and Jool running through a database of citizens looking for Evigan Koiban, when Chiana vanished. Rygel had noticed it first.

"Should Chiana have gone?" He'd asked.

"What do you mean?" D'Argo asked, looking up and around. "No, she wasn't supposed to have gone anywhere." He hit his comm, called her. Nothing answered him but static.

"Why does this happen _every_ time?" He muttered, as he scanned the sea of heads before him. He cursed. "This is impossible." D'Argo looked back at Rygel, who had floated above. He shook his head. Nothing he could see. "Keep trying to comm her, Rygel." The Dominar nodded and moved off slightly. D'Argo turned to Jool.

"How well do you know this planet?"

"Not _that_ well." Jool said sourly.

"Come on then," D'Argo told her. "Let's find your husband. He'll know better."

They dug back into the database, and thus failed to notice the sea of heads beginning to part, like the waves before a boat's prow. Rygel nudged D'Argo as the point of the wedge got closer.

Out of it stepped a V'rahn and two rather large beings, which Jool identified as "Pacifiers", and all three belonged to the local Ashkelon Warlord. "Pacifiers" were a kind of Warlord 'police' service. They were blocks of muscle, bone and little brain, in straight black uniforms, armed with dense bodies and thick armor and shock lances that could render an entire troop transport unconscious with one zap. The V'rahn, haughty as all of their kind, stopped several paces away.

"I am P'tahrah. On behalf of my Master, D'Strand'm'tah of the Sevarant Clan, I am here to pay you for your Nebari."

A large bag of money was tossed to D'Argo's feet at the V'rahn's gesture.

"_What?_" D'Argo sputtered. "She's not for sale!"

"Immaterial. She's been bought. I would advise you to take your payment and go."

D'Argo's Qualta blade flashing was all his answer consisted of, but it didn't matter. One of the Pacifiers dropped his lancer to the floor and everyone in the space of a dozen motras dropped to the floor. Rygel had backed off on his sled almost to the ceiling. He was ignored.

The V'rahn turned, and to the conscious part of the living sea before him intoned, "A transaction had been completed with this Luxan. The Ashkelon frown on interference in their business dealings."

So saying, s/he and the Constables moved back through the crowd, and D'Argo could take the slight consolation that, when he awoke, the money for Chiana would still be there.

* * *

**THE BURIAL SPACE WAS APTLY NAMED. IT HAD TAKEN THEM TWO SOLAR DAYS TO GET HERE, BUT THEY ARRIVED AT LAST.**

The _Twixt Far Stars_ made its way slowly through the golden nebula, past the hulks of dead or dying Leviathans. So far, only females, which Shee'ladahalia had rejected. The explanation was that unless Crais wanted Talyn to have a female _personality_, they should continue on looking for a male. Apparently, Leviathan neural tissue held personality remnants for quite some time, hence Shee'ladahalia informing Crais earlier that Talyn _would_ remain Talyn, but that there would be differences. He would acquire some of the character traits of the donor, and if they were fortunate, it would be nothing but beneficial.

"So – how _does_ one sex a Leviathan?" Crais asked her, as she bent over the scanner setup.

"Like many species," she said, not looking up. "Often times the males are larger than the females – so it is with Leviathans. Your adult for example – Moya – she's is very likely quite long and sleek, no? Golden?"

"Yes."

"Males are as long, but wider, more strongly built up front. They tend to be of darker hues than the females, and go silver in their senior cycles. Females don't. In the wild, unfettered Leviathan males charge one another in the rut."

"That must be quite the spectacle."

Sheila looked up finally, at him.

"It can be. Male rut often takes place over planets – the object of one is to drive the other into an atmosphere. The fights can spiral down almost to the surface – the loser can, at times, be driven into the ground. They don't, normally, ever go down to a planet's surface. Sometimes the loser dies there."

Crais sat near her as she went back to the scanner.

"May I ask – do Ashkelon or Kia'Baa'ri use Leviathans as transport?"

"The Ashkelon do, yes. In some ways you and they are similar. The Ashkelon at times genetically modify Leviathan offspring. Usually to increase their cargo space or carrying capacity. Nothing like Talyn. The Kia'Baa'ri have had a partnership with Leviathans for nearly ten thousand cycles. _We_ would _never_ use coercion on them."

"Like Peacekeepers."

She nodded, looked up at him.

"Yes. I should inform you that I do not like Peacekeepers, Captain Crais. Even ex-ones."

"That is your prerogative, of course. I have no concern other than Talyn."

"As well you should, seeing as you are chiefly responsible for his creation."

"I do not deny that. I did what I had been commanded to do."

Shee'ladahalia snorted in derision.

"Yes, no matter what the cost. Typically violent Peacekeeper rationale." Crais simply looked at her calmly, apparently unconcerned with her disregard.

"This other Leviathan – Moya – what is the story behind her?"

Crais shifted in his seat.

"I am also responsible for her, in a way. I ordered the death of her first Pilot and its replacement, and I used her as both a prison transport and experimental vessel. She is Talyn's mother." Shee'ladahalia looked shocked by his candor. "The people I travel with are those ex-prisoners."

"Astonishing."

"I agree."

Shee'ladahalia bent back to her scanner.

"May I assume the upgrades were not your idea?"

"No, they were Crichton's idea – although I _had_ been searching for some means for Talyn."

"Why is an outlaw like Crichton so concerned about a Leviathan? Most Sebaceans consider them mere expendable beasts of burden."

"Crichton is not a Sebacean, and he does not. He's a Human and apparently Humans have levels of empathy many would find… odd. I asked him once and he told me, '_When you encounter beings as selfless as they are, you can't help but care about them_' – I believe he feels he owes them… something." He seemed to think for a moment. "He's right, of course, as I am beginning to understand." He lapsed into silence.

Sheila looked at him anew, apparently reappraising him.

"That's very enlightened."

"I am trying." A small smile flitted across his face.

The scanner beeped and Shee'ladahalia bent back to it. Crais rose, said over her shoulder –

"Have you found something?"

"Yes… a male… about a forty thousand motras directly ahead." She checked again. "I'll send the coordinates forward."

Crais just nodded, his anxiety building. He asked the Kia'Baa'ri, as she passed by him on her way to the command, "Is this one alive or dead?"

"Alive. Barely. He is _very_ old." Came the reply. "We'll have to go in treblinside. His Hammonside hanger is closed. It looks like a major failure from what I can scan – at least a third of this Leviathan on that side is in vacuum." She sniffed. "He even has cargo remaining. It appears to be standard ship maintenance equipment. Useless to us."

"We will have to ask for the tissue," Crais said with some apprehension.

Shee'ladahalia nodded, as if it should have been something to which there had never been any question.

"Yes, of course we will."

"I'm not very good at asking for anything." Crais said as he followed her forward. Yet another snort of derision answered him, and Crais sensed that, no matter how long this took, it would be too long.

* * *

**PERMISSION TO BOARD WAS GIVEN, AND THEY WERE SOON IN THE DEN.**

Shee'ladahalia had explained their need to the Pilot. She told her about Talyn, what he was, what he required. The Pilot was also very old, and both herself and _Elack_, the Leviathan they were currently on, were near death. Crais had asked about them, had learned some of their history. Both had been joined all of their lives, had sired six offspring, and had always been free. Elack was, like all of his kind, gentle and had learned much in his travels.

"This is a most unusual request," Pilot said, her voice quavering.

"I know what it sounds like," Shee'ladahalia said, standing close to the console. The others remained by the entrance to the Den. "But our Leviathan is just a youngling, and he desperately needs this graft."

"You could just take it." She said, looking at Crais with the doe-eyes all Pilots seemed to possess. She knew a Peacekeeper when she saw one.

"We would not, Pilot. I am Kia'Baa'ri. You know of us. It is your decision – yours and Elack's, as always."

"If we refuse?"

"Then we shall leave, without trouble, instantly, upon your word."

Pilot closed her eyes, a few moments went by, and Elack rumbled.

She opened her eyes, looked at Shee'ladahalia, at the people behind them.

"Do you know what neural tissue it is exactly that you will require?" She asked. Shee'ladahalia waved a tech forward. He had the list she had compiled of connections, what they were, where they were found. He handed it to her and she read it off to Pilot.

Pilot nodded when she was finished, said, "You realize that Elack's own personality will be integrated into this Talyn's?"

"Yes, we know. Our hope is that Elack's wisdom and maturity will help him." She cast a sidelong glance at Crais. "He needs such."

Elack rumbled again, and Pilot "listened", looked back at him.

"Elack… consents."

"Thank you, Pilot." She turned, looked around. "Thank you, Elack." She was answered with a rumble. "We'll be as gentle as possible."

"We are dying," she told him. "Many of Elack's senses have dulled considerably. He will feel no pain, I assure you."

"I'm glad." Shee'ladahalia turned to her small army of techs. "Get started."

With a measured precision and determined purpose, they filed out.

"I would like to observe the process, if I may." Crais asked her. She looked at him for a moment, nodded. He left with them.

"I am sorry," Pilot said to him. "But I am very tired, I must sleep, very tired…"

"You go right ahead, Pilot. Thank you again." She nodded, and was very quickly unconscious.

Shee'ladahalia looked at her a moment longer, turned and left to join the tech team.

If she had waited a moment longer, she might have noticed Pilot's proximity board light up, and tracking sensors lock on to an approaching object. Pilot could have told her, but she was asleep.


	6. END

**THE TRANSMISSION WAS RELAYED WITH DUE DISPATCH**, and Crichton was muttering to himself as he stalked down the corridor.

It of course frelling figured. Not on the surface for a full frelling arn…

He barged in on Miriya in her quarters. She was rather casually dressed, especially for her, very femininely attired, in silky soft blues and grey materials which did nothing but flatter her. She was comfortably at her computer station - PK tech. Not so unusual, he supposed, but everyone else seemed content with the local hardware. He gave her the benefit of doubt and chalked it up to Miriya's less-than-legit business practices.

"What?" She asked, a bit sharply as he entered. She'd not expected visitors, and certainly not ones with no sense of how one entered someone's quarters. It being Crichton mollified her initial irritation.

"D'Argo called. Chiana's gone missing. Something to do with some Warlord 'buying' her." Miriya sat back, crossed her arms with a smile.

"How long were they on the surface?"

"About an arn."

"That sounds about right for you people. He wants help, I take it?"

"Yeah. I need a ship. He wants Moya to come back here for her upgrades and still go after Chiana." Miriya rose, stepped deeper into her apartments.

"I'll help you." She started shedding her soft clothes for more practical ones. On her way back out, she grabbed a duffel and stuffed various items into it. "My part in this upgrade won't be for a while, anyway." She saw that Crichton hadn't followed her, turned back out. He was waiting by her computer console. She blinked, and said, casually, "We can leave when you like."

He nodded with a sharp jerk of his head.

"Good. Sooner than later."

"I'll have to clear it with Lehnkminn. Someone should be here to represent your group."

"There will be." Crichton stalked off, and Miriya followed, pausing only to close and lock her console, wondering what else was on his mind. In less than an arn, they were underway in _The Edge._

Crichton was going over D'Argo's transmission again, distances meaning that there wasn't any meaningful two-way communication.

"Miriya – does the name 'D'Strand'm'tah of the Sevarant Clan' ring any bells?" He asked, after the third listen.

Miriya thought about it.

"D'Strand'm'tah controls the Reach. That's twenty-three Commerce moons. With those finances he can do pretty much whatever he wants. As Warlords go, he tends to be rather gregarious, and is reputed to be easy-going and approachable."

"And a goddamned thief." Crichton growled.

"Well, that goes without saying." Miriya said with some amusement. "We'll be there in a few arns. Relax."

Crichton huffed out a breath, sat. He put his feet up and closed his eyes.

"Good," she said. "Best thing for you until we get there."

"Yell when we do." He muttered, and Miriya nodded even though he couldn't see her. Crichton wasn't paying attention to her any longer, anyway.

"Is it just me," Harvey was saying, "or has this gone a little _too_ smoothly?"

He was "walking" idly about the pilot deck.

"Of course it has, Harve. That's the point."

"The point to what?"

"Fate."

There was a dry chuckle from Harvey.

"Come now, John – _you_ live in one very large self-fulfilling prophecy, guided by the immutable law of your Mr. Murphy."

Crichton grinned a lopsided grin.

"What can go wrong will, huh? Par for the course, as evidenced. There's no point in trying to anticipate it, Harve. I'd never get anything done."

Harvey nodded, "wandered" over to him.

"Oukka-level command codes." He said to no one in particular.

"Hmm." Crichton pursed his lips. "Later."

Harvey sighed.

"Tell me something, Harve – your counterpart in Crichton tried to take over before he got his ass erased. Why haven't you?"

"What would be the point, John? In that other instance, that Crichton was on the verge of having all of his wormhole knowledge unlocked. It proved too great a temptation to my 'other'."

"And since that's unlikely with me, you don't have that particular temptation?"

"Different experiences." Harvey settled himself against a bulkhead. "The other Crichton _fought_ my counterpart almost constantly – I believe we have managed to strike a balance."

Crichton sighed, clucked his tongue.

"I still don't want you in my head, Harve."

"Of course not, but I can be of use to you, John. Even if it is in this 'employee' role of yours. You have nothing to fear from me. Honestly."

"Really? Why _is_ that, Harve? Why _should_ I believe you?"

Harvey seemed to look introspective then.

"If I may be candid, I find myself enjoying this particular existence. I did not think I would. I may be a copy of a copy of Scorpius' neural patterns, but I am _not_ Scorpius, nor am I the other. Existing in your consciousness has given me experiences he would not have, and I find myself …changing because of them. Scorpius has had very little in the way of experience with what he might term the 'frivolous' things in life, but I find them to have a rather significant importance."

"Joy in the mundane, huh? I told you, it's my head. I want information when I want it – not when you feel like doling it out. Once and for all, _I_ rule here."

"I understand, John. I am perfectly willing to simply _be_, as it were. I believe that in exchange for you permitting my continued existence, I can be of great use to you. I offer what knowledge I have willingly."

Crichton nodded back at him.

"That's a start."

"I have all of Scorpius' knowledge – up until the time he implanted me. It was a calculated risk on his part, but then, I was never meant to remain as long as I did. I will abide by your wishes."

"All just for me allowing you to stick around and 'experience'?"

"Yes."

Crichton went back to his 'nap' posture.

"I'll think about it."

"Oh, one other thing, John – being cavalier about certain… things may be dangerous."

"I'm taking this _very_ seriously, Harve. But it isn't time yet."

Harve nodded, vanished.

Crichton cracked his eyes, watched Miriya calmly pilot, then breathed, leaned back and got comfortable.

* * *

**"HANDS OFF, FEKKIKS!"**

A futilely-struggling-in-the-iron-grip-of-two-Pacifiers Chiana was unceremoniously dumped into a large well-appointed room, and the door was slammed shut behind her, booming closed like a sentence of doom. She gathered herself up, stood, looked around, pulling on the collar they had latched around her throat. She _hated_ collars. This one, at least, did nothing but hold a medallion. At least twenty pairs of eyes gazed back at her, some shocked, some puzzled, some knowing – all belonging to females of various races.

One in particular, an attractive and formidable-looking female obviously Ashkelon came casually toward her, looked at the medallion hanging from the collar.

"A new one. We will be a Chro'la Ball Team if this keeps up." There was a general peal of laughter at that. "He's going for the exotic lately, I see. An 'Inviolate' seal, no less."

"What the frell is going on?" Chiana demanded, backing away in a stealth-slink.

"You've been _bought_, dear," the female told her, somewhat condescendingly. "Welcome to the D'Strand'm'tah Harem – such as it is."

"Thanks, but I'm not staying." Chiana told her, all darting and assessing eyes.

That brought another peal of musical laughter from the group.

"You've been bought, dear," the spokeswoman said. "I can't imagine what he wants with the likes of you. You're a bit… scruffy, aren't you?"

"I don't remember being asked if I _wanted_ to be bought." Chiana thought a moment, growled, "And who you callin' scruffy, you overmade-up tralk?"

Another female in the corner laughed, stopped abruptly at the spokeswoman's glare.

"She's a Nebari, Be'bari'a." Be'bari'a nodded.

"What's your name?" The spokeswoman asked, reassessing.

"Chiana."

"Like Umur said, I'm Be'bari'a." She smiled a not-unfriendly smile. "And you _have_ been bought. You should accept it. Makes the transition easier. It can be a very comfortable life." She sighed. "Considering how much D'Strand'm'tah tends to pay for the truly exotic, it's doubtful anyone will be coming for you."

"You don't know my friends," Chiana growled, now back against the wall and inching slowly along it. "They'll be along."

Be'bari'a sat gracefully down in a finely-wrought chair at an obviously expensive table, unconcerned with Chiana's slinking about.

"I doubt that. This is D'Strand'm'tah's Fortress. No one gets in here unless he wishes it."

"That's so true, my dear," a male voice boomed from behind them. A strongly- built, rather handsome male stepped through a cunningly hidden door. He had silver eyes, immaculately-coifed night-black hair, and the bold tattoos all Ashkelons his rank possessed. He indicated a Pacifier to retrieve Chiana, which he did. Chiana knew enough by now not to bother struggling. She hung there in the Pacifier's hands, a good half-motra off the floor.

"Chiana here, however, is not destined for my Harem, although that's a pity." He smiled at her, his dark eyes glittering. "No, she's something else entirely."

"What's that?" Chiana demanded.

"Why, a _pawn_, my dear. Of course." He gestured both to the Pacifier and Be'bari'a.

"Bring her." He smiled at Chiana with the grin of a V'rakka Cat. "Let's prepare for your friends' arrival, shall we?"

* * *

**Crais had been watching the techs work.**

He'd picked an open tier, a floor above them, to enable him to look down and watch without being in their way. The techs, he'd discovered, liked ex-Peacekeepers about as well as Muukarhi did.

It was for Talyn, he continually told himself, but the disdain and open loathing _was _starting to grate on his nerves.

There was a scuff behind him, and Crais turned, but saw no one. The corridor behind him was dark and empty. He was suddenly glad he had heeded Crichton and brought a pulse pistol. He waited and watched, but the scrape was not repeated. He turned back with a sigh, looked back down on the techs harvesting neural tissue.

What had Crichton called these Leviathans? Selfless? Indeed they were. Hard to believe that not so long ago Crais would have seen such as this as immensely foolish – exploitable, of course - but foolish, weak and contemptible.

Such would save Talyn. Crais shook his head, discomfited by the idea. Many such ideas were still new to him, and they still gave him pause. Perhaps it would become easier with time.

There was click behind him, and Crais turned again, irritated, to see a figure encased in what appeared to be globular armor, and it was pointing a rather wicked looking rifle _at_ him. Crais dove for the floor just as shots sizzled over his head, crashed through some empty crates in the corridor. One hit him in the left shoulder, but he kept going. He scrambled along the wall as more shots exploded behind him.

"Bounty hunters!" he muttered as he unlimbered his pistol, feeling blood trickling down his arm, a sharp pain arcing across his shoulders. He didn't know what that was, but it was obvious as to what it was after.

"Crais, Captain…" he heard a gurgling voice intone. "Come out. For you there is no need to die. Surrender." Crais had a hand poised over his comm.

"And who might you be?" he called from his hiding place.

"We are Invidid – we are hunters for bounties. Save your companions, for die they will if you surrender not."

Crais saw the Invidid still moving to where he had dived to escape its initial shot. He had managed to already get around behind it.

He stood, leveled his pistol at it, said, "I think not," and opened fire, punching it back against the wall. It let out a liquid squeal as it fell. He advanced on it, continued to fire as it tried to rise, shattering more globes. Blue goo splashed from them. Finally, it stopped moving.

"You are indeed formidable."

"We…" it gurgled. "…are Invidid. You cannot …kill us unless you kill all."

The blue goo he noticed was flowing in on itself, until it was a large pool on the floor. It started to move away from him and it's shattered armor, accelerating. He sent another shot at it, but it had already found a crack in the wall and was pouring through it, vanishing.

"Unfortunate." He sighed.

He holstered his pistol, hit his comm.

"Attention. This is Crais. We've bounty hunters on board. I was just attacked by one that called itself an Invidid."

"_I am pulling my techs out, Crais," _ Muukarhi came back. "_This is not in their contracts."_

"Do you have the required neural tissue for Talyn?" Crais asked, hurrying carefully down the corridor.

"_Invidid are colony creatures, Crais." _Muukarhi told him. "_They never travel alone, and there will be more. We are not getting killed for you – or your Leviathan."_

"Do you have the required neural tissue for Talyn?" Crais asked again, as if he hadn't heard her.

"_Not all of it, no._"

"Then you will continue to work until you do," He told her in no uncertain terms. "They are not after you, but me. I shall lead them away."

"_What? I – you're going to lead them away?_" She seemed skeptical.

"Yes. Finish your tissue extraction. Talyn is the priority."

There was silence from the other end for a long moment.

"_Very well. We have proximity sensors that are normally used in case of DRD misfires – not uncommon on old Leviathans – I shall set those up. They should warn us if anyone comes near. They have a limited defensive arrangement._"

"Very well. Please proceed."

"_We will need at least eight more arns to finish, Crais_. _This is delicate work_."

"Please do your best. I shall do what I can to keep the bounty hunters occupied."

Down in one of Elack's larger nexus, Muukarhi looked up the shaft, once again reassessing the ex-Peacekeeper Captain. He was undoubtedly running to his death.

"We will go as fast and efficiently as we can, Crais. I'm heading to the Den – perhaps the Pilot can assist you."

"That would be most appreciated." He commed off, grimaced as more pain lanced through his shoulder, sighed, jogged into an auxiliary cargo bay, gun drawn.

Behind him, he heard a long, drawn-out gurgle follow him across the bay, recognized the sound.

It would be a very long eight arns.

* * *

**Evigan Koiban stepped out** of his transport, looked up at the looming Skreeling Port, from whence the most unexpected call had issued. He had no desire to become embroiled in any intrigues. He was in the middle of trying to establish his medical practice, and delays like this were not helping. Twenty-three cycles she'd been missing, and he would have figured that would have been that. He'd realized long since that she'd simply used him to gain her own ends. He'd sat for almost three arns after the call had come, wondering what he would do, what he could do, if he should even bother.

Unfortunately, as long as she had been considered missing and not dead, he couldn't marry anyone else – he couldn't even really _start_ a relationship. Still and all, he'd have rathered she'd stayed missing. Yet, here he was, hoping it was not another speedbump on his latest attempt to get his life into some semblance of order.

He sucked in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, marched up the long flight of stairs leading to the entrance, glad that he had spent fifteen cycles in military service. There was no telling what awaited him.

He hadn't gotten far when he was intercepted by an old nemesis, one Rokker Bunai Shokti, just waiting for him to fail in his duties to the Warlord, so that he could report him to Interion authorities and grab his offices and his practice.

"Koiban – what _are_ you doing here? So unlike you to be out so early in the day."

"How gratifying, Bunai Shokti, that _you_ are here to note my shortcomings. Surely that speaks to the caliber of your character, and the excellent training of your parents."

A lopsided, irritated smile and glittering eyes rejoined with,

"You're _too_ kind. I must _tell_ you…" he waved around the huge port. "That your continued service to the Warlord is not a venue in which an up-and-coming young physician should be seen, Koiban. The Doctrinal Council would frown on it." He sighed dramatically. "But, you have always been headstrong _and_ willful, and gone your own way."

Koiban forced a smile.

"I must wonder that you have not informed them of it yet."

Rokker sneered.

"Where would be the profit in that? At this point?"

"At this point – when a simple word from me to the Warlord would have you vanish as if you never existed?"

Rokker paled for a quick moment, but regained control of himself quickly. Koiban, however, had seen it.

"I see you realize your error. That is a merit in itself, and in merit lies success, Bunai Shokti – I am sure that the willfulness that you speak of is merely _strength of will_, which is to your detriment, undoubtedly."

Bunai Shokti sneered at him.

"You will go down presently, Koiban. I know you too well. You will overstep yourself."

"Perhaps. But you will not see it, so I suggest you scuttle elsewhere."

Again the low laughter, and Koiban was wondering if he'd remembered to lock that back door in his office.

"I'll go." Rokker huffed. "But you'll be gone before I am."

Koiban passed off the threat with a contemptuous wave, and turned away, moved deeper into the port, trying to find his way into the crush of people, Rokker forgotten as he attempted to maneuver.

He didn't get far when a strong hand reached out, grabbed him and plucked him from the crowd into a booth just off the main flow of traffic. He was startled, especially when he saw the huge Luxan staring down at him.

"Is _this_ the one?" the Luxan asked someone behind him. A Hynerian floated above the Luxan's left shoulder. Behind him came a voice Koiban thought he recognized.

"Yes, I think so." A female Interion face peered around the Luxan, and Koiban gasped.

"Joolushko Tunai Fenta Hovalis." He jerked out, as she looked at him.

"Evigan Koiban." She squeaked, nodded. Through her discomfort, Jool looked him over. He was as she remembered, albeit older, taller than she, with short brown hair, straight features, dark eyes, a strong body. He was dressed conservatively in a short- collared dark suit. He looked, she thought, a little like Crichton – only Interion. She expected his hair to have colored by now, but it hadn't. He must have _great_ control.

"Uh, I'm sorry about the abruptness of all this," Jool told him, looking a little embarrassed.

"Entirely understandable." Koiban said. "You were not known for your stability."

"Okay, I deserve that." She indicated the Luxan, ignoring the snort from the Hynerian. "This is D'Argo, and Rygel."

"Dominar Rygel the Sixteenth." The Hynerian intoned. Koiban nodded.

"What do you want?" Koiban stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest. "We never consummated anything, Joolushko, so I owe you nothing."

"No, it's nothing like that… Navria sent me here as part of an agreement and now we've run into a bit of trouble…"

"One of our number has gone missing – supposedly bought by the local Warlord."

Koiban nodded.

"I see. You may tell Navria, Joolushko, that I am satisfied and you are free. You may forget your companion if she has been bought by the local Warlord. That would be D'Strand'm'tah, with a personal army of about fifty-five million and over four thousand starships at his command." He turned to go. "I do appreciate you wasting my time, however."

"Koiban… it's not that easy…" Jool told him, stopping him. "You don't recognize these people, but I should probably tell you…" they'd agreed on it, even if Rygel had found it galling. "The purchased girl is a member of…" She sighed. "These are members of… _John Crichton's_ band."

Koiban nodded, and said, very calmly, as he turned,

"Goodbye!"

That Luxan hand grabbed him again, pulled him back.

"Koiban – all we want to know is _where_ this Warlord is!"

Koiban shook himself loose from D'Argo's grasp.

"What makes you think I would know?" A printout was abruptly thrust into his face. On it were manifest of medical supplies and travel vouchers for his multiple trips to D'Strand'm'tah's Fortress to treat one or another of the females in his rather sizable Harem. D'Strand'm'tah preferred Interion physicians, and Koiban was the only qualified one on Davros. It also explained Rokker's hatred of him. "Ah. That would be evidence that makes me appear quite the liar, yes."

Despite the situation, D'Argo found himself smiling, and already liking this man.

"All we need is to know where this D'Strand'm'tah is located." D'Argo told him. "And you can go your own way and forget you ever heard of us."

"That sounds equitable. However, it is not worth my life to do so."

"Understandable," Rygel told him, as D'Argo sighed, and a large Qualta Blade's point was suddenly under Koiban's chin.

"Is it worth your life to refuse us?"

* * *

**CRAIS JABBED A COMPRESS**, made from strips of his undershirt, into his shoulder wound, wrapped it up with more.

He took a long, roundabout route, but he finally made his way back to the Den without incident. Pilot had awakened.

"We are sorry, Shee'ladahalia Muukarhi, for not seeing those hunters." She wheezed at Nok'Bari. She noted Crais' entrance, did not turn from the Pilot.

"That is hardly your fault, Pilot. How are your internal senses? Can you see where any others might be?"

"Elack's senses are deteriorating, Shee'ladahalia Muukarhi. I cannot. I'm sorry."

"There is no need to apologize, Pilot. It is not at all necessary." Crais said around Muukarhi, who frowned as she saw him pulling his jacket back on, as he winced. "Can you detect movement – apart from the technicians?"

"I have so few functioning DRD's… I shall send what I have to survey..."

"That will be sufficient." He worked his arm. It would be very stiff. He did not relish having to hunt the hunters in this condition.

"Captain… wait… I am sensing movement four tiers _below_ where you were."

"Can you tell how many? One? More than one?"

"No, unfortunately."

"Very well – that's will have to suffice. Thank you, Pilot."

Crais headed out, gun out. Shee'ladahalia stopped him.

"You are obviously hurt." She said, after a moment.

"It is of no consequence." He told her, resuming his forward momentum. He did not need the hunters surprising them here. Too much damage to the Den and Elack could die prematurely – and they would all be in serious trouble.

"Perhaps not," she said, "but take this anyway." She held out a small pack, and Crais realized that it was a small emergency medkit.

"Thank you. Please continue your work. I shall deal with this."

So saying, he left the Den, made his way onto the tier, cautiously went down the corridor.

"_Captain…" _Pilot, husky.

"Yes, Pilot?" He whispered back.

"_Elack informs me that he senses movement just outside his primary propulsion chamber_."

Crais commed Muukarhi.

"Are there techs near the starburst chamber?"

"_None. All are in the Central Nexus._"

"I see."

Muukarhi came back with,

"_That makes sense, Crais. If I were going to board a Leviathan and didn't want the Pilot to detect me – I'd come through the vents into the starburst chamber. Pilots can't sense anything in there."_

"Can that area be sealed off? Perhaps we can detain them there long enough to allow you to finish."

"_I will see what is possible._"

"Just give me as long as you can."

Crais made his way down, was two more tiers closer to the hunters when Muukarhi commed him again.

"_Crais, I believe if we can lift entire conduits, we can finish in under three arns._"

It sounded like good news, but Crais was taking nothing for granted.

"How's that going to affect Elack?"

"_Not significantly. Many are to systems already long dormant or deteriorated past usefulness_. _For Elack._"

Crais nodded to himself, assessed. At the moment, Pilot had their visitors confined to the starburst chamber – but they wouldn't stay there for long.

"Very well. If you think you can, please proceed – again, and I am loathe to stress the obvious, proceed with dispatch."

"_Yes,"_ she nodded. "_That was rather obvious_."

Crais thought, thought hard and then thought again, finally decided.

_This is about Talyn, Crais, _he'd been told. _Not about you._

He was right, of course.

"Shee'ladahalia Muukarhi, when you are finished, you are to leave. Take the tissue and go."

"_I beg your pardon?_"

"Yes, I will not be returning with you. Since I am the obvious target, it would be ill-advised for me to accompany you on the return trip. I will not jeopardize those grafts."

There was silence from the other end for what seemed like a long time.

"_You are serious_."

"I am in deadly earnest, I assure you."

"_I have no auxiliary craft to leave you, Crais_."

Crais found himself a nice spot just off the last tier, where he could settle in and wait, and not be seen.

"I am aware. The bounty hunters will have craft, thank you. I would appreciate if you could perhaps leave me a few ration packs in the Den."

"_I will inform you when we are about to leave_," she told him, after another moment.

"Thank you. Pilot – any change in the hunters' movement?"

"_I fear I cannot tell with any accuracy, Captain. They have managed to bypass many of my closures."_

"Yes, I was in no doubt that they would. Let me know if they get closer to me, Pilot, if you can."

"_If I can_."

Crais got himself as comfortable as he could, waited. Around him, he listened to the creaks and groans of a mighty starship far past its prime.

_They are truly magnificent creatures, _he thought. _I was a farmer's son, one would think I would have remembered such respect._

It did not seem like a long time had passed, but the comm when it came startled him.

"_Crais. We have finished_."

"Very well. Goodbye." He killed his comm as he heard movement in the corridor outside of his hiding place, waited, held his breath.

Slowly making their way up the corridor came three dimly glowing individuals – more Invidid he realized, more globular armor, more heavy arms. Crais checked himself, he was actually a little above the corridor in his alcove, and wondering if it would tactically sound to actually attempt an ambush with only one pistol, decided against it.

He needed, as Crichton was wont to say – a plan.

As quietly as he could, Crais shifted his spot, found the conduit, started to climb.

Below, 'one' of the Invidid looked up, looked down, and the other split off, going in different directions. Being a colony creature, when one looked up, both actually looked up. The Invidid that remained below Crais' spot looked until it found an entry and then calmly followed Crais up his conduit.

Crais exited the conduit, after several twists and turns and one or two rather tight spots, over the central hanger – just in time to see the _Twixt Far Stars_ exit it.

He nodded to himself. Talyn would be repaired, no matter what happened to him.

_Perhaps_, a little devil voice told him, _it was for the best_.

_Perhaps,_ he answered it. _But that remains to be seen, no?_

He did not waste time on it, however, dropping to the floor and dashing around the open upper tier. Fortunately, the Den was not too far from his present location.

Behind him, there was a clatter, and he ignored it, ran to the large door to the Den, through it, closed it.

By the Pilot's station, he spied the ration packs, was grateful. Crais slung the ration packs, glanced back to the door. It had begun to glow at its latch point. The Pilot, he noted, was unconscious. A long groan echoed through Elack, and Crais suddenly realized that he had less time than he had initially thought – when he had told Shee'ladahalia Muukarhi to go.

Elack was near death. _Too_ near death. It had been his hope that Muukarhi would inform someone at Abbanerex of his predicament and they would soon return to his aid. He also suddenly realized that, like Elack surviving much longer, that too was _unlikely_. None of Moya's crew actually regarded him with any more consideration than did Muukarhi. In fact, they had been handed precisely what Crichton and the rest had been wanting ever since he'd joined with the young Leviathan – his severance _from_ Talyn.

Crais sighed, and with a soldier's ingrained fatality, simply shook his head and circled the Pilot's console, looking for a way up and out.

He had made his decision. He had done it for no one other than Talyn. That would be enough. He would not, however, go easy. The Invidid would not find him easy prey. It appeared that he would have to, once again, save himself.

So be it.

Crais got a good grip on an overhead ladder, forced the hatch cover above his head open and was through and the hatch closed just as the door to the Den surrendered and opened.

He was trudging up a long-disused corridor when Elack pitched and shuddered, and up ahead a conduit blew…

TO BE CONTINUED…

* * *

_NEXT TIME ON FARSCAPE - FREEBOOTER:_

**BLIND ICARUS - ECLIPSE**


End file.
